Printed for Randal Taylor, near Stationers-

A1v B1r 1

A True Relation of their Practice

At Oxford Town when there an Act is.

Canto I.

Half Choakt ith’ Dust of our lewd Town,

Tir’d with their Follies and my own;

To breath a Wiser Air, and better,

With many a Token, many a Letter,

I tript to t’other Alma Mater.

Thousands One, Hundreds Six, Tens Ninety,

Three Ones the Year exactly point t’ye,

When a remarkable Occasion

Brought there the Learn’d and Wise oth’ Nation:

The Act which some believ’d must be

Turn’d to a Jewish Jubilee,

Whose joyful sound that Nation hears

No more than Once in Fifty Years.

The Act, which now they discontinue

So long, some thought, they ne’er had any;

B But B1v 2

But that some forward Scribes in Iniquity

Had feign’d it like their own Antiquity.

Oft wou’d the new created Sophister

Where Boy cry’d, “want ye any Coffee, Sir?”

Start from brown-study, answering rather

“When comes the Act, the Act, Dear Father?”

The Beardless Father sigh’d, but knew

No more of that than I or You;

For all his Logick and his History

This an unfathomable Mystery.

Even the Grave Doctors scarce cou’d tell

Without the help of Chronicle,

When last they in their Boots appear’d,

And Bugbear Terræ-Filius fear’d.

Now one, and then the other Faction

Putting the Dons beyond their Action:

Now Whig, as Nobbs had then bedighted him

With Horns and Tail Cry’d “Bough”, and ’frighted ’em;

Till they stark staring run with one Mouth,

To rail at, and discomfit Monmouth:

Tho’ wiser Cam to save his Bacon,

His Picture kept till he was taken.

Then their Lov’d Chancellor’s Picture banish,

As Rome unfortunate Sejanus.

More Loyal Oxford, Windsor trusted

With many a Pondrous Pike and Musket,

Soon form’d in Squadrons and Battalions

To swinge the Duke’s Tatterdemalions:

But Blessings on that Noble Lord,

Who sav’d the Labour of their Sword;

Who did the Tall-Young Man betray,

And run most Loyally away.

O happy Oxford! happy since

Fate gave thee such a grateful Prince;

True B2r 3

True to his Friends beyond comparison

He Jefferys sent to pay thy Garrison;

Whose Musick-Speech so sore did fright ye

The Act that Summer cry’d Good-night t’ye

Since then, Confusion on Confusion,

All Chaos till the Revolution;

Till a New World rose from black Billows,

And Surges roll’d as soft as Pillows.

Yet then Fate had so long been thwarting,

So stunn’d with the old Blows of Fortune,

The Aged Matron did appear,

She scarce got Breath in Four long Year:

But now recover’d brisk and Bonny,

As Bridegroom’s self, in Moon-call’d-Hony,

An Act as I before have told y’it

She’ll have, and all crowd to behold it.

Expect not all the Nation over

From Cornish Mount, to Peer of Dover,

I shou’d recite, since did I know it,

’Twould look like Herald, not like Poet:

Then rest content with what I give ye

Hyperbaton. To further trouble save, believe me.

I’ll only sing what Troops have gone down

From thee, O Trinobantick-London!

Three Aldermen, and one wise Justice,

Some of the Orphans trusty Trustees.

To shew their equal Wit and Valours

Ten Woollen-Drapers, Nine stout Taylors.

Likewise to Visit their Acquaintances

A well-teeth’d Band of Fifty Prentices.

Three Jolly Landladies went jogging,

Their Rosy Cheeks, confessing Nogging;

Their B2v 4

Their Cheeks with Sweat and Gravy running,

And wot ye what――They went a Dunning;

Some certain Lads that shall be nameless,

(For we’d have none should justly blame this,)

Not long since made an Expedition

In Water-Poet’s low Condition;

(For which the Rude wou’d call ’em Blockheads,)

London to see with empty Pockets:

On these kind Hostesses they lighted,

And since they found themselves not slighted,

Them now to see the Act invited:

Which kindness they accept the rather,

In hopes of Ready-Bill from Father.

I’th’ Name o’th’ Beadle, what ill Fortune,

Before Remembrance drew a Curtain,

That I, on these lewd Scholars plodding,

The Cream o’th’ Jest had half forgotten.

Upon the Road i’th’ Crowd I saw there

Two Booksellers and One poor Author:

The Author first through Dust was trudging;

With Clouted-Shoon, like D――well drudging;

By Sympathy I look’d upon him,

And cast few good Wishes on him,

And him behind my self had Mounted,

But that my Steed too weak I counted;

For my own Worth ’twould hardly bear,

Much less my Fellow-Traveller.

While thus my natural Benignity,

Beheld with Grief such an Indignity,

And did against hard Fate dispute it,

Why Booksellers ride, and Authors foot it;

Who C1r 5

Who shou’d I see with all their Tackle

Within a Leathern Tabernacle

But Two, as Witty S―― has it,

O’th’ honestest that e’er sold Gazette.

The Name o’th’ First, but hold, let’s pass it;

The Second too shall secret be,

Lest we should spoil good Company.

They Hemm’d to my poor Militant Brother:

He heard, (for sharp are Ears of Author.)

Then took him up, and kindly carry’d

To Town in their Triumphant Chariot.

Me soon they spy’d, as soon they beckon’d,

I joyn’d their Train, and made a Second.

On Conversation quickly fall,

Slap-dash, And how, and how goes all?

Who last the Athenians did be-rogue Sir,

What Auction, or what Catalogue Sir?

This idle News let’s throw away,

And to the Business of the Day;

Lest we our Embryo-Notions smother

With Gravity, subjoins the other.

You know e’re Fortune did convene us,

What was agreed upon between us;

That whosoe’re a Project started,

We’d both go halves, and have it parted.

Speak then, since yet my Noddle won’t stir

And none that’s here will us misconster

If any Prodigy or Monster;

Any rare glorious Fight or Murder

Of this side Tweed, or on the further;

For Doeg’s Fustian Quill to utter,

Doubly inspir’d with Bread and Butter.

C Not C1v 6

Not one of these my dear Acquaintance,

Who right or wrong still mind the Main-chance;

Not one good Whim, or I can’t think on’t,

Replies the first, howe’re let’s drink on’t:

How good Wits jump! The Thought they blest,

Well-motion’d strait cry’d all the rest.

High did they heave the Courteous Bottle,

Transfus’d to Sympathetick Noddle,

Whose Blood exhausted, fills their Veins,

And crams Capacious Guts with Brains.

When one with Thanks to’th Juice that gave it,

Crys out, I have it Lads, I have it.

This very Act, altho ’twill many

Cost dear, with us shall turn the Peny.

Whate’re we lose, we’ll make Reprisal,

Whoever gains not, you and I shall.

My very Thought, I’ll swear’t says t’other

Howe’re you came to hit on’t Brother,

Bear witness else, O’ambling Author!

Say, did not I my self propose

This very Notion at the Rose?

Poeta loquitur.
You’re both my Friends, may Riches seize me

And make me dull, if I’d displease ye:

Yet (as for Fibbing I defie it,)

’Twas the self-same, or very nigh it.

Howe’re I’m sure you’ll do a fair thing,

And stand to your Authentick Bargain;

Your Servant’s here to nick th’occasion

And give a Full and True Relation.

For that, crys he, if we find Stuff,

We can have Journey-Men enough.

Trade’s C2r 7

Trade’s bad, Paper’s too dear o’Conscience,

Nought sells besides th’ Athenian Nonsence.

Oth’ last true Bloody Fight I printed,

In this own fruitful Brain-pan minted.

The Hawkers, which you’d scarce believe,

some Rogue
or other must
print it upon
Six Quire return’d me out of Five.

All this Sir not to beat you down;

To Generous Souls what’s Half a Crown?

Below your Works intrinsick Value

No, by no means Sir wou’d we paul you:

We can be Civil Sir, you know it,

And we’ll i’th’ next Edition show it.

Nor for the first will we be stingy,

Or down to next to nothing dringe ye:

To hold you by the Teeth and Neck fast,

We’ll give y’e a Guinea and a Breakfast;

Nay Brother, we’ll that Breakfast double,

Ne’re stand upon’t but make’t a Couple;

Besides one Generous Pint to inspire him,

And for this high Atchievement fire him.

The other adds, well hang’t, I’ll take it,

Poeta loquitur.
And a rare piece ne’re doubt on’t make it.

I’ll do my best at Joque and Rallery,

Nor fear but ’twill, Pit, Box and Gallery.

Be each of you a careful Waiter,

An Eves-Dropper at the Theatre.

Come you but all well-laden home,

With Thyme, i’ll work it into Comb.

He said, and we by this were got over,

Thy Clowdy Brow, Sky-clistring Shot-over;

And just as we had clos’d our twatling

O’re Maudlin-Bridge the Wheels went ratling.

The Colledge self’s a little beyond,

You’ll see’t next Door tot’h Sign of Grayhound:

Nor C2v 8

Nor cou’d we much besides discover,

For now Dame Night came fluttering over:

Black Ghosts arose, and Gown-Men fled,

And Tom had warn’d the Sun to Bed.

Since for his Exit, vain’s our Sorrow,

We’ll Sleep, and tell you more to Morrow.

The End of the First Canto.

Canto. D1r 9

Canto II.

Expect not our bold Muse should call

The witty Moonshine and the Wall,

To tell you what this Night betided,

Which knew no more than you and I did:

To leave then honest Townsmen snoring,

Some Scholars Tipling, others Whoring;

Some from th’intruding Proctor scampring

T’avoid enchanted wooden Cramp-ring;

Or when that Cunning-Man has spy’d ’em,

Charm’d by those powerful Words, Per Fidem;

Tripping away, without Bayardo,

As much as
to say they
go afoot thither.
Unto the Castle or Bocardo,

Similie. As Rats are rim’d to sore Mishap,

And run their Heads into a Trap;

Similie. As Salt on Birds directly thrown

Probatum est, their all they’re own,

So here――But letting that alone.

The Reader thinks as we intended

We’ll here go on where last we ended,

Comprizing in immortal Sing-Song

How all th’ old Dons were at it Ding-dong.

D Their D1v 10

Their Themes, the manner and occasion

Of every strenuous Disputation;

All this from point to point reciting,

And both his greedy Ears delighting.

Thus he, thus let him like a Nisi,

But we intend more to surprize ye,

To change the Scene, invert the Order,

Jogging in Road direct no further,

But with some Two or Three Supposes

Wiping our Gentle Reader’s Noses;

Shall tell ’em all we did discover

Of this fam’d Act, as all were over;

As by good Author ’twas related,

The Price you know before debated:

And if he gives the secret Histories

Of any Scholar and his Mistress;

If Gown turn’d up he makes the wonder

At strange unheard Discoveries under,

We’re not to answer for his Sawc’ness,

As knowing nothing of the Busi’ness:

Take Word for Word, from just Relators,

Not Paraphrasers, but Translators;

’Tis He, not we, are now to deal w’ye,

And so he pray’d me, Sirs, to tell ye.

The First rare Scene in this great Drama,

Was Mr. Vice’s grave Pragramma;

That all the Lads with Care exceeding

Should shew their Haviour and their Breeding;

On pain of Black-Book and the Proctors

Abusing none, besides the Doctors.

That those whom trembling Soph acknowledges

Right Worshipful of Halls and Colledges,

Should D2r 11

Should signifie to their Societies

During the Act, though now so nigh it is,

All Doctors should their Scarlet wear,

As blushing at the Crimes they hear.

And when the little Tingle-tangle

The Signal gives, prepare to wrangle.

All things and Places rightly stated,

For Graduates, and Non-graduated.

For Doctors, Masters, Ladies, Fiddles

The Gall’ries are reserv’d; the Middle’s

Left open (Thanks,) for the Rascality,

Servitors, and Promiscuous Quality.

Next the Curators must take care

No breach of Peace be suffer’d there;

All with Decorum done, and Gravity,

No Rudeness, or lewd Mob-like pravity:

The Doctors, as ’tis hop’d, abus’d,

The Innocent Ladies too misus’d;

Each little freedom there must pocket,

Clap and Forgive th’ill-manner’d Blockhead.

And further, for the preservation

Of Alma Mater’s Reputation,

No Scholar, be he less or bigger,

Not Gown’d and Capp’d in Mood and Figure,

Must have the Priviledge to hear

His Betters hist ith’ Theatre.

Next such a Hist they could supply it

From nothing but a Polish Diet;

Their D2v 12

Their Names enough to have abasht one,

Legassick, Strauchan and Borashton.

The stately Persian Monarchs use

By length of Whiskers Porters chuse;

So we our Proctors much the same,

By Hardness, and by length of Name,

Tmesis. Who meet at One, that Mob may fear ’em,

I’th Apo―― (what d’ye call’t) ――dyterium.

Expect not I shou’d make Relation

Of every Poem and Oration;

The Ladies heard, (them I’ll not flatter, or lie,)

And Edified most supernaturally:

Similie. As when St. Tony Preaching stood

To’s Four-Legg’d Brethren in the Wood.

Altho his Language was unwonted,

They cou’d not Hum, yet Thanks they grunted;

Fain on their Mast wou’d had him Dine,

And prov’d themselves all well-bred Swine.

Now the full-button’d Youth appear,

And Squeaking, fill the Theatre;

Their Parts well conn’d, say over prettily,

Nay humour all things wondrous wittily.

The prettiest littlest harmless Bawbles,

Young Unfledg’d Lords, and Callow Nobles;

The Ladies might, nor wou’d they scare ’em

For Nosegays in their Bosoms wear ’em;

Not so when Men of Parts and Converse,

They’ve wit to scorn――to write――their own Verse.

Once harmless Worms, now fledg’d in Vices,

They’re Basilisks all, and Cockatrices;

Their E1r 13

Their Mouths, their Eyes, their Tails discover

Stings, Poison, Murder, Death all over.

Yet honest they perhaps continue,

Nor know they other use of Guinea,

But hungry Poet to requite

Who did their Gawdy Verses write.

Who if he dares but claim his own,

When Bully meets him out of Town,

Shot up to a Man, and strangely grown,

With Valiant Whip he’ll kindly Lace him.

Or else most gratefully dry-baste him.

Henceforth beware, dear Brethren, of it,

Take they the Honour, you the Profit:

“Bought Wit is best”, and’t has been said for’t.

It must be theirs who fairly paid for’t.

One sings, tho in Heroicks, odly

A Catalogue of the new Bodley:

While from another you may hear

Our swinging the French-Fleet, last Year.

A Third describes in lofty Fables

Their addled――No-Descent――at Naples.

A Fourth sings Britain’s Antient Glories,

Which the vile World will now think Stories.

A Fifth great Ormonds Praises writes,

Heroically, as he Fights.

The next brave Savoy’s long Recovering,

Who o’re the Gallick Foe is hovering;

His Illness, how th’Allies deplore it,

And all he did, since and before it.

But we had Prose as well as Verse Sir,

Of which I’ll be a true Rehearser.

E How E1v 14

How did the sharp Inceptor Budgell

His Holiness, and Socinus Cudgel?

How Tod dispute, as sweet as Timbrel,

Of Schism and Athanasian Symbol?

How he who could in Egg-shell scribble

A General-Council prove fal-lible.

How Bedford talk at this great Season,

Of Fault, and Pain, and Light of Reason.

How Brazan-Nose, thy fam’d Entwistle,

Geneva and Cracow bids go whistle:

What Cradock the vain Deist say to

What he de Opere Operato.

What next of Royal Christ-Church, Langford

Which won’t come in, tho I shou’d hang for’t.

No more will any Physick Question

Of Sagittary or of Thurston:

But Spirits and Piss, and Blood together

And Gout may go I care not whither.

Friend à majori proves, a Brute

Has Sense, because he can Dispute.

Brown will not let Fanaticks baffle us,

While Prince has power of Adiapharous.

Of Kecking, Hannes and Salt’s Discourses,

And strange Narcotick Powers and Forces.

Last Dale affirms in sober Sadness

All great Wits have a spice of Madness,

Himself he’d for an Instance give ’em,

But is there any will believe him?

In this Employ the Day well worn,

They to the Tennis-Court adjourn.

A Theatre, tho far less spiteful

Than is their old, far more delightful;

Where E2r 15

Where the young Lads that never ventur’d

Never ’till now, are fairly enter’d:

What there they do among the Wenches

Say, O ye Stools, O speak ye Benches:

Yet do not speak, your Voice would have us,

Like Vocal Head or Board ’twould scare us.

But Luna now is Heaven adorning,

So Friends adieu till the next Morning.

The End of the Second Canto.

Canto III.

Muse tell the Man, who like Almanzor

To every Mortal Wight crys Stand Sir;

Discourteous Knight, whose Tongue dead-doing

Draws not for Ladies aid, but ruin:

Whether he Terræ-Filius height,

Or Musick-Speech, pronounce (not write,)

Midst Doctors, or their Wives is forraging,

Hysteron Proteron.
His use, abuse, and Primitive Origin.

But Terræ-Filius first invade,

And Conjure up from Native Shade.

Have you not Read or Heard, Sir Reader,

Epicurus. Of an old Grecian Master Gard’ner?

Who that he might be fam’d for something,

Said, Man grew out of Earth, like Pumpkin?

Ne’re gern, and shew your Teeth, this Doctrin is

Embrac’d by th’Wits, and sage Autochthones;

You some such Story, will ye, will ye,

Must own ith’ Name of Terræ-Filii;

Of Dunghil Race, and Education,

For strange Equivocal Generation:

Firm E2v 16

Firm Proof you from their Birth may gather,

The Earth their Dam, the Sun their Father:

Hence, like their Brother Dors they rise

And mean, but only mean the Skies:

When those in vain they’ve long affected,

Thither in vain their flight directed;

To Native Dirt, they sink forgotten,

By every Foot to nothing trodden.

The Titans first of this lewd Race,

Which did ev’n Mother-Earth disgrace;

Proud big-bon’d, brainless, graceless Giants,

They Jove himself set at defiance;

Who whirl’d his vengeful Thunder at ’em,

And sunk ’em under Styx Ten Fathom.

This Mother Terra took so ill

Th’ Old Crone maintains the Quarrel still,

Was with new Rebel-Bastards gotten,

As soon as ’tother, dead and rotten:

With weaker Arms these Heaven assail’d,

The others Fought, these only Rail’d

Their Malice-impotent began

With Jove himself, then each Good Man;

Old Comedy, and lawless Satyr,

Th’effect of Lewdness, and Ill-Nature.

The Language was, which first they spoke in,

All Gravity and Virtue mocking:

They pleas’d toth’ Life, the Mobs ill Natures,

Whose Meat and Drink’s to abuse their Betters;

This the true rise of all thy Scoffing is,

And sharp-edg’d Jests, O Aristophanes!

The Wittiest Knave we ever saw since

The Terræ-Filius of old Athens.

He with grave Socrates did squabble,

And on him loo’d the grinning Rabble,

Abus’d the Doctor and his Wife,

Which cost the good Old Man his Life.

’Twou’d be too long to tell th’occasion

That brought ’em first to th’ Brittish Nation;

And F1r 17

And which oth’ Druids did invite ’em

To Beaumond, alias Bellositum,

Who there of yore profess’d Astrology,

Sage Ethicks, Physicks, and Theology;

Which if you question, plain and liquid ’tis

Beyond dispute, in Wood’s Antiquities;

Ascetick-Wood’s, whose known good Nature,

So justly curbs his harmless Satyr;

Who takes such care on each occasion

To vindicate the Reformation:

None better cou’d since or before do’t,

Heylin or Harmer ne’re did more do’t.

Tho some there are perhaps wou’d blame us,

For making their first rise so famous;

And think these Under-Graduates-Oracles

Deduc’d from Cornwal’s Givary Miracles,

From immemorial Custom there,

They raise a Turfy Theatre;

Where from a Passage under-Ground,

By frequent Crowds encompass’d round,

Out leaps some little Mephistophilus,

Who ev’n of all the Mob the Offal is,

True Terræ-Filius he, we reckon is,

Or Anti-Theos Apomechanes;

Who Rimes, and Joques, and lays about him,

While Brawny Thousands clap and shout him.

Whence our new Merry-Andrew’s Rise is,

Transplanted thence to Ford of Isis.

And next the Muse her Slave beseeches,

For a few Words of Musick-Speeches;

Whether from those old Strolling-Pedlers,

The Bawdy Corybantick Fidlers,

Who Isis Temple oft had been in,

Not lov’d for nothing by the Women:

Or blind Welch Harpers, who for Farthings,

Told Tales, sung Songs, let F――s, sold Bargains.

We’ll not dispute, since there’s no time for’t,

Nor can we reason find, or Ryme for’t.

F But F1v 18

But to particulars descending

To Canto’s haste, and Poems ending.

But who alas! who can suffice,

Tho Tongues he had, like Argus-Eyes,

To tell of all the witty Rubs,

Spawn’d by who knows how many Clubs?

Against grave Doctors and fair Ladies,

As always at the Act the Trade is.

Sure there’s a Letch’ry in Abuses,

They both have read Flagrorum usus,

Tho an odd way, you’d think to move ’em,

The more their flogg’d, the more they love ’em.

Here the Wags maul one old Sinc ater,

Not Hobbs himself e’re did it better;

Whose very Beard has found ’em matter

For Thirty Years Abuse and Satyr:

There generously another Hector,

And reverenced the poor Rector:

Not Colmer more, or great T――,

Him, or his Piece of Matrimony:

With Jest so easie, all must take it,

Of Gospel, and of Woman Naked.

And sure, but him, none e’re had knowledge

Of what is what in all the Colledge:

Not one of their Young Senior Fellows,

But’s of his Chastity so jealous,

Should you a Naked Woman shew ’em,

You’d fright ’em so, ’twould quite undo ’em:

Put ’em beyond that fair occasion,

Beyond hot Crust and Disputation,

Away, Sans Fear or Wit they’d scamper,

In spite of Ditch, of Wall or Rampire,

As Serpent, (swallow’t he that can,)

Fly from the sight of Naked Man.

Nor all is born by Doctors Backs,

For Cambridge too come in, for snacks.

And F2r 19

And is it thus, O ye Oxonians!

Ye treat your Brother Heliconians,

The Christians, Jesuits, and the Ionians?

They’ll fit you for’t, and not be here,

’Till this time comes again next Year.

Next enter Smith, and very odd is’t,

That he talks thus, the Chast, the Modest;

See but with how much Grace he Blushes,

At every Word all over Flushes.

His Wit, his Modesty, or Learning;

Whether’s the most needs deep discerning,

His Wit, all rais’d by Contribution,

Or Military-Execution;

For he so neatly has express’d it,

’Tis all his own, as he has dress’d it.

His Modesty sure’s more than common,

Since known to’ above 500 Women:

At Spencer’s Squire of Dames he’d laugh,

Whom he out-throws a Bar and half.

Then for his Learning, ’tis notorious,

Made by his Modesty more glorious;

But his chief Excellency is

As Envy own, in Languages;

The European not enough,

The Modern only trifling stuff,

With a far larger Scheme delighted,

All Babels are in him united.

What ever Traffick brings from far

Indian, Chinese, or Malabar;

A natural Hottamtot he’d ape,

Deep vers’d it’’th Language of the Cape;

A happiness so strange and rare,

The Company shou’d him prefer,

Either to lie their Leiger there,

Or be at least Interpreter:

What near the Line, or near the Tropick,

Sclavonian be’t, or Ethiopick;

All, all’s his own, he has no small smattering,

Familiar-like, his Greek and Latin:

Yes, F2v 20

Yes, ev’n his Greek in which he’d have ye

To know, he’d out Aristotle’s Davy.

However he came by’t, he’ll teach ye

Scarce Satan more, what’s Entelechy:

’Tis true, such Roots are often found

To thrive the best in Barren Ground;

But here’s the wonder of the thing,

That they from fruitful Noddle spring,

As full of Wit, by th’ issue all-may-see,

As Aldermans of Sense or Policy.

How plentifully this he squander’d!

How neatly did he Merry-Andrew’t!

Prick up your Ears to Repetition,

Ladies, I am a bad Physitian;

My Urinal I can produce ye,

And other Instruments cou’d shew t’ye,

By help of which there’s none who better

Can cast or judge a Ladies Water:

I’m an Anatomist too and please ye,

Of all the Female ails can ease ye,

Not Saffold more, whose Art I’nherit,

I the sole Heir of his Great Spirit.

But, be the Naked Truth confess’d,

I’m at Man-Midwifery the best.

Have you not heard of a Young Maiden,

Whom Modesty like mine, invading;

When our lewd Sex, ours only were

Assistants at the Groaning Chair;

No Mortal having liberty

Without them to be born or dye;

Finding besides they’d oft be fleering,

And their poor Female Patients jeering;

Nay sometimes when they ought to bleed ’em,

Do something else, like Dr. N――

What does she but clap Foot in Stirrup,

Equipp’d with Breeches, Sword and Peruque;

Till on a Stage good Fortune thanking,

A Quack she spies a Mountibanking:

Patience she had some half an Hour

To hear of Fam’d Orvietan’s Power

Ano- G1r 21

Another half the Mob he assur’d,

What Crowds by others kill’d he had Cur’d:

And if there’s any Females here

Who need a Father Confessor,

I’ll not one Syllable discover,

But be as secret as a Lover.

Cure all their ails, tho ne’er so many,

Nor till perform’d, will ask a Peny.

Not as some Tinkering Doctors do

Who mend one Hole, by making too.

Ay here’s the Man, the Virgin cry’d,

And to be short, her self appli’d

To Quack, desiring if he’s able

To teach this Skill so admirable;

He did, since then, your Sex invaded

Our Art, nor with us longer Traded;

But when you more than usual yelp it,

Yes, thank ye, when you cannot help it.

Then gladly must you send agen

For me, or Doctor Ch――

For him at least, since as for me

I come uncall’d, without a Fee,

Except a Drubbing on occasion

Out of meer Superarrogation:

Disguis’d lest you my Beard shou’d gape on

With mighty Muffler, clean white Apron,

And cleaner Sleeves, I’m neat and ready,

With Eye like Eagle, Hand like Lady.

But one thing more, I should have got me,

A Lions Heart, for your Anat’my.

That failing me, I quak’d and trembled,

My Ears and Tail in vain dissembled.

The Ass peep’d through and I was known,

And o’re the curst Balcony thrown.

Judge if my Skill not cost me dearly,

Which at your Service is sincerely,

T’ anatomize on all occasions

Your pretty Parts and Reputations.

No Favour or Affection shown,

Not your Sex only, but my own

G Shall G1v 22

Shall feel the dint of Musick-Speech,

And first have at Lucretius――Cr――;

Nor can there any thing be stranger

Than the occasion of my Annger.

Not that his first so well was done,

That Envy said ’twas not his own;

For some may so malicious be,

To say the same of this and me;

Nor that he’s but a bad Translator

Of Horace, (tho pray shew me a better;)

But wot ye what’s the very cause,

A curse upon his Lockram Jaws.

There was a Lady lov’d a Swine,

Preferring his sweet Face to mine;

Judge you, and if there’s Justice in ye,

I dare shew with him for a Guinea,

Here’s Eyes and Nose, here’s Foot and Leg too,

To say no more of Shape and Neck too:

And him, yes him, O Times, O Mores,

To have that Phiz preferr’d before us!

That makes me fret as String of Fiddle,

And thus snap off my Tune i’th’ middle.

That heap of Scandals I’ll not write,

Which made for Sm―― the Ladies Fight.

Tho other Lovers sure ’twould ruine,

At Oxford ’tis their way of woing.

So fair Grimalkin none espouses,

How well so e’re th’ old Gib-Cat Mouses

E’re Musick-Speech’s on the Houses;

And when they’ve pull’d each others Furr,

’Twill then be time enough to purr.

See how this Strokes, the other woes him,

That fain would lay in Lap or Bosom;

While back and forth he brushes by ’em,

With Tail on end, as he’d defie ’em.

Nor from each other need you guard ’em,

They’ll not fight long, you need not part ’em.

With what you’ve heard, pray rest contented,

My Book and Canto here are ended.