THE Oxford-Act: A POEM.
LONDON; Printed for Randal Taylor, near Stationers-Hall, MDCXIII.
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;
[Page 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
Terrae-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;
[Page 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
To further trouble save,
Hyperbaton.
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;
[Page 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 a 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;
[Page 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.
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?
Your're both my Friends,
Poeta loquitur.
may Riches seize meAnd 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.
[Page 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,
Six Quire return'd me out of Five.
Certainly some Rogue or other must print it upon him.
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,
And a rare piece ne're doubt on't make it.
Poeta loquitur.
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;
Shot-over-Hill.
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:
[Page 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 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,
Unto the
Castle or
Bocardo,
As much as to say they go afoot thither.
As Rats are rim'd to sore Mishap,
And run their Heads into a Trap;
As Salt on Birds directly thrown
Probatum est,
Similie.
their all they're own,So here—But letting that alone.
Similie.
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.
[Page 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,
[Page 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;
[Page 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,
Who meet at One,
Tmesis.
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:
As when St.
Tony Preaching stood
Similie.
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
Ʋnfledg'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;
[Page 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.
[Page 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;
[Page 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
Terrae-Filius height,
Or
Musick-Speech, pronounce (not write,)
Midst Doctors, or their Wives is forraging,
Hysteron Proteron.
His use, abuse, and Primitive
Origin.
But
Terrae-Filius first invade,
And conjure up from Native Shade.
Have you not Read or Heard, Sir Reader,
Of an old
Grecian Master Gard'ner?
Epicurus.
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
Terrae-Filii;
Of Dunghil Race, and Education,
For strange Equivocal Generation:
[Page 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
Terrae-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;
[Page 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
Terrae-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.
[Page 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
Sincater,
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.
[Page 19] And is it thus, O ye
Oxonians!
Ye treat your Brother
Heliconians,
The Christians, Jesuits, and the
Jonians?
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 Traffiick brings from far
Indian, Chinese, or
Malabar;
A natural
Hottamtot he'd ape,
Deep vers'd it'h 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:
[Page 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 Repetion,
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
[Page 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
[Page 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 Auger.
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.
FINIS.