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,

Certainly ſome Rogue or other muſt print it upon him. 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,

Shot-over- Hill. 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.