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Being certain Select DIALOGUES, Of a Merry Wagg of Antiquity.

Newly put into Engliſh Fuſtian, for the Con­ſolation of thoſe that had rather Laugh and be Merry, then be Merry and Wiſe.

LONDON Printed for Edward Goldin, in Rainbow-Court, in Alderſgate-ſtreet, 1684.

THE Epiſtle to the Reader.

HE was a ſtout Man, who firſt ventur'd to Eat an Oyſter; was the ſaying of a Crown'd Head: And without all doubt, 'tis as True, as Witty: for all Men know, that every Work is moſt difficult in the Commencement; and that 'tis eaſier to Imitate, than Invent: Tho I never ſaw any thing of that Nature, but what came very ſhort of its Original: 'tis like the fancy'd Ghoſt of a departed Author, ſo much unlike, and ſo wrapt up in its infernal Accoutrements, ſo very Thin, and Pale, ſo Ghastly Horrid; that every man who ſees, and reads it, is as much Scar'd, and Frighted, as if he had been Bug-bear'd by ſome Stygian Spectre; Or as the Celeſtial Author of the Winged-Won­der-Working-Angels has it; As if a man had enjoy'd a Sucubus in the ſhape of a Handſome Woman. For which reaſon, I ſuppoſe a late Au­thor call'd his Burleſque, Butlers Ghoſt; and certainly 'twas a proper Name for it too; for I believe, it as much deſerves to be Entituled the Fourth part of Hudibras, as the Pilgrims Progreſs merits to be the Fifth, to that Number; and this I ſay (not to leſſen the Credit of the Ghoſt, or its Author) but becauſe no man can do too much Honour, to the me­mory of the Ingenious, and Learned, though (much to be Lamented) Un­fortunate Mr. Butler

And next to him, I can't but mention the Admir'd Mr. Cotton, whoſe Scarronides are more to be valu'd, than all the Engliſh Burleſque now Extant, ſetting Mr. Butlers ſelf aſide: And ſince my doing of Lucian, I have ſeen a little Book Intituled, the Scoffer Scoft (as I believe) written by the ſame Author; being Lucian's Dialogues of the God's, in the ſame Bur­leſque: And truly had I ſeen it before, I ſhou'd not have ventur'd upon a­ny of the Dialogues under that Title. Knowing all that I cou'd expect from ſo doing, muſt be only to publiſh to the World, my Dulneſs; and draw a weak Copy, after ſo great a Maſter, without I cou'd have found ſome unintelligible Title to have aton'd for the Preſumption (like that of the before-mention'd Ghoſt); nor can I now be contented (being much delighted with things of that Nature) without begging the Favour of Mr. Cotton, to be ſo diſtinguiſhed: Though perhaps ſome Phariſaical Criticks may object againſt the Reaſonableneſs of it; as if 'tis impoſſible for a man, while Living, to Fright the World with his wandring Ghoſt: But ſince I deſire to be ſo Honour'd, I hope he will grant me the favour, and the World forgive me; for a Ghoſt is a Ghoſt ſtill.

But now, perhaps it may be expected I ſhould ſay ſomething in behalf of my own; but in the firſt place, I don't think they deſerve it: 'Tis your Buſineſs kind Reader, if ye like 'em: If ye Refuſe it, I ſhall be content with the Pleaſure I took in Writing 'em; though I believe they would have pleas'd better, had the Parentheſis in the Title, been left out; eſpecially thoſe who don't underſtand a word of that Antient Language; but however, you ſee I am modest, as to my Learning. But the Bawdy of the Firſt Part has given Offence (I hear) to ſome of our Aged Ingenioſo's, though they at the ſame time, are not wholly guiltleſs in things of the like Nature; but grant­ing there is a ſprinkling of it in ſome of the Firſt Dialogues, I hope it is more excuſable in Youth, and Gingling Burleſque, than in Argumen­tal Dialoguing Proſe done by Experienc'd Age: For ſuch is Lucians Works, and ſuch was Lucian.

Perhaps it might now ſeem reaſonable for me, to give ye an account of Lucian and his Works; but for two Reaſons I decline it. Firſt, Be­cauſe the Illiterate don't deſerve it: And Secondly, The Learned, (if I ſhou'd) wou'd find nothing therein (to them) Novel: But if any of 'em deſire it, I muſt refer 'em to the late Learned and Ingenious Tranſlater**Mr. Ferrand Spence.; where (if they can underſtand Engliſh) they may be abun­dantly ſatisfied.

And now give me leave to tell you, I did at the firſt deſign a Dedica­tion, to theſe Dialogues: But for ſome Reaſons I met with in the Interval, I thought it wou'd not be worth my while. Firſt, Becauſe the Patrons of this Age, the leſs they deſerve; the more they expect to be Complemented. And tho Speed and Baker are not able to furniſh one with Hiſtory e­nough to entail 'em, to an honeſt Family; 'tis impoſſible to pleaſe, with­out two or three Pages in Praiſe of their Anceſtors; when all the help too a man has for ſuch a Task, is only to be found in ſuch like Authors. For another Reaſon too, becauſe if the Writer be a man, who pretends to Po­etry, and has a little more ſenſe, than the drudging Man of Money can expreſs over a Tedious Quart of Claret; 'Tis ten to one but he muſt be forc'd to take up with an Old Proverb for his pains, Poet and Pennyleſs: And if he be not ſo at that time, 'tis as many more, to nothing; but his Patron ſhall endeavour to make him ſo for the future.

And in the next place, for a Story (ſomething like this) a Friend told me the other day.

A Young Scribler in Rhyme, after ſome Pains and Study, having finiſh'd a ſhort Poem on the Times; thought it convenient, as well as faſhionable, to Dedicate it to one of his Old Bottle-Companions, one that he had ſpent much Money with in all ſort of Faſhionable Converſation the Town cou'd allow, and was as frolickſomly Vicious a man, as one wou'd wiſh to drink withal. Many Complements he gave him, and told him he was as Diſcreet and Judicous, as a Man wou'd deſire to be. But ſee the effects of things of this Nature; This Patron of wit, (being a Man of diſcerning faculties) in heat of Wine, (at which time ſome People are very Witty) was pleas'd to tell one of his Female Conveniencies, That this little Spark of a Poet, did expect a Preſent for his Dedication; but he ſwore, he ſhou'd be bawk'd: for, for that Reaſon, he wou'd not ſo much as give him a Bottle of Wine, or ever drink with him again. A mighty loſs, without all doubt! which puts me in mind of a Piece of Modern Burleſque.

Like play for Nought, the Game to loſe;
Or take you This, or That; or Chuſe:
Or like to One, (tho' not to blame)
Who Limps and Haults before he's Lame.

But this I fear is Tyreſome, being a little out of the Method (Kind Rea­der) You were us'd to be Treated in; but if I can, I'le make you amends ſome other time; upon Condition, you'l pardon me now.

And ſo I humbly take my leave.




TIS the command, Sir Sun of Jove,
That for three days you do not move
To lengthen out a night for Love.
And let the hours that wait on you,
Unharneſs all your Horſes too;
Then put your Candle out, and go
To bed, for Jove will have it ſo.
What is't that I have done, that he
Shou'd thus reſolve to puniſh me?
That Gammer Night ſhou'd bear the ſway,
And triumph o're her Lord the Day?
That's not the thing, nor is't of ſtate,
His buſineſs is of greater weight.
Where is he now? don't tell me falſe.
In Boeotia with little Alce.
Will not one Night allay his fires,
And cool his lecherous Deſires?
'Tis not for that, but to compleat,
And make a Heroe ſtrong and great,
Whom he did t'other day beget.
Much Joy to him, but Mercury,
I'le tell you now 'twixt you and I,
Such idle things were never done
When good old Saturn wore the Crown,
He ne're ſtole out in all his life
To occupy his Neighbours Wife,
But always kept to Rhea's Coney,
And thought her fit to change his Money.
Day was day the••nopaltry ſcurvy
Punk the World turn'd topſy turvy;
For want of Exerciſing too
My Horſes, they will Reſtive grow.
Briers and Thorns will choak the way,
And men will languiſh for the day;
And all to make ſome bluſtering fool.
Hold now, leſt he your courage cool.
Mean time as I was bid I'le go
And charge the Moon to ſaunter too,
That ſhe abandon not Mankind,
Leſt they the alteration find.

A Dialogue between Vulcan and Jupiter.

HERE is the Ax you bid me get,
What am I now to do with it?
Strike hard my head, nay do not wonder,
And cleave my aching Jaws aſunder.
Sure yo'ave a mighty mind to ſee
If I am mad, then laugh at me.
But prethee Jupiter don't joke,
And tell me what you mean by th'ſtroke.
You idle ſot, to cleave my ſcull,
And if you do refuſe it, fool!
I'le ſwinge you off by fatal Styx!
Strike hard, and leave your fooliſh tricks.
For my poor head beats like a Tabor,
And achs as if I were in Labor.
Take heed, for faith you now command
What I did never underſtand.
You'd better get ſome Midwife do it,
Leſt you repent, and after rue it.
Strike boldly Dog, and do your beſt,
And then let me alone for th' reſt.
I'le do't 'cauſe you muſt be obey'd,
Though it was ne're my way of Trade.
Have at your head! uds Death and Hell!
What's this I ſee? 'tis wonderful!
Well you might have ſuch ſwinging Pains,
While ſuch a Wench was in your Brains.
See how ſhe capers o're the ſtools,
As if ſhe'd been at Dancing-ſchools.
And how ſhe brandiſhes her ſpear,
She almoſt makes me ſhake with fear.
Well you might be ſo croſs of late,
When ſuch a Girl was in your Pate.
s'Wounds! ſhe's a ſtrapper of her years,
How brisk and handſom ſhe appears;
She's very tall and Blew-ey'd, but
Her Helmet makes her a pretty ſlut.
Give her to me, I prethee, Jove,
She's big enough, for I'm in Love.
With all my heart, I am content,
But ſhe will never give conſent:
For ſhe has vow'd a ſingle Life,
And hates the very name of Wife.
Let me alone, ſince I have got
Your word, I'le try her on the ſpot.
Berul'd by me. and quit the Place,
She'l ne're indure thy ſooty Face.

Numb. 2.LUCIAN.


I'Deſpeak with Jove, Coz. Mercury:
He's buſie, ſir,
Tell him 'tis I.
Pray be not now s' importunate;
If you wou'd ſee him, you muſt wait.
Where is he now? is he with's Wife?
No, he's not there upon my life.
Is he with's Boy that he does love?
You'r much miſtaken ſtill in Jove.
Where then? and what a doing, tell?
Why truly he's not very well.
Phoogh! that's a Sham, come tell me true,
I am aſham'd to tell it you.
Aſham'd to tell it to your kin?
I beg your pardon, he lies In.
How! was he an Hermaphrodite?
I ne're perceiv'd it by this Light,
Nor did his Belly big appear.
No, he had ne're much aching there.
Was it where he Minerva bred?
Who from his brain was brought to bed,
He has a Teeming Logger-head.
No, he in's thigh the child did bear:
How! is he fruitful ev'ry where?
Juno being fill'd with Jealouſie,
Did put a Trick on Semele,
Perſwading her, pray mind the Story,
To lie with Jove in all his Glory,
Who being poſſeſs'd with fierce Deſire,
Strait ſet the Room and her on fire.
For when (you know) he's arm'd with Thunder,
He does deſtroy things to a wonder.
All he cou'd do, things were ſo ſpoil'd,
Was juſt the ſaving of the child;
For which he in his thigh made room,
When bloody hot it dropt from th' Womb.
And now he's once more free again,
But wonderfully weak with pain:
Or as you 'ave often heard it ſed,
He's very finely brought a bed.
Now I cou'd laugh until I burſt,
But pray where muſt the child be nur'ſt?
Why I have carry'd him to Nyſa
To be brought up (pray mind what I ſay)
The Nymphs of him great care will take,
And uſe him well for's Fathers ſake.
And Jove after this mighty Do,
Is Father to't, and Mother too?
Yes, yes, but I've no leiſure now
To let you any further know;
For I muſt go and buy ſome ſtrings,
And other neceſſary Things
To bind him up, ſome Harts-horn Jelly,
Caudle and what is good for's belly;
To nouriſh him, poor Mercury!
Thou muſt I fear, his dry-Nurſe be.
With other things unknown to you,
So honeſt Nuncle Nep. adieu.

A Dialogue between the River Enipeus & Neptune.

FAith Neptune you were much to blame,
T'aſſume my ſhape and take my name:
T' abuſe my Miſtreſs, faith you were.
No, rather you were too ſevere,
You were unjuſt unto her love,
Since ſhe ſo very kind did prove:
Which bred in her a thouſand fears,
And overwhelm'd her ſtill in tears,
For on your banks ſhe ev'ry day;
Th' Oblations of her love did pay.
And muſt you therefore cheat her thus?
'Twas pity made me Courteous,
Beſides I pleas'd the Beauteous ſhe.
'Tis true becauſe ſhe thought 'twas me:
But when ſhe found out who 'twas Acted,
She'd almoſt like t'have run diſtracted;
Beſides I'm mad that any he,
Shou'd Reap the Joys belong to me.
'Tis you'r to blame, and wond'rous baſe
T'abuſe ſo fine, ſo ſweet a face;
Therefore for th' future learn t' improve,
The ſhort, but Pretious hours of Love.

Printed for Charles Corlet at the Oxford Arms in Warwick lane.


Numb. 3.LUCIAN.


HOw comes it, ſince yo'ave loſt your breath,
And falln into the hands of Death,
That idle, ſilly, Country People,
Shou'd build to you a Church and Steeple;
And then, as if 'twere ſuch a Prize
As to a God, t'you ſacrifice.
Am (I d'you think) Accountable
Forth 'fooliſh Whimſies of the Rabble?
Well, but the People, ne're had don it.
If you had not put them upon it,
You made your ends, and intereſt of it,
And told 'em all, you were a Prophet.
And like a true Diſſenter, ſtrove
To break th' Allegiance, ſworn to Jove.
It does behove, Amphiloctus,
(Whom you ſee now is here with us,)
To give an Anſwer unto you;
And tell you all the Meaning too,
For my part 'tis well known I can,
Prove I am ſomething more than man:
And can foretell (like any thing,)
And am, or wou'd be more than King.
No Heroe e're had ſuch a Name,
I was the firſt i'th' Rank of fame,
And ever ſcorn'd to Crouch, or bend
To Father, Unkle, Wife, or Friend.
But one wou'd think, by what you ſay,
You'd ne'er bin in Labadia:
For there I ne're cou'd walk abroad,
But ſtill attended by a Crowd,
Hollowing, and hooping as they went,
As if they'd rend the Firmament.
Long live Trophonius! they wou'd cry,
While Jove paſt unregarded by;
All this wou'd ſure have made it plain,
That I was born a God, (Again)
You cannot tho miſdoubt, that I
Am (now) of Heavens Progeny
So muſt believe, (tho ne're the near now)
That I am more than Man; a Hero.
There was no need of being there,
One might have heard on't any where:
Nor of doing things that thou haſt done,
Thou fooliſh, baſe, rebellious Son,
Dull, Canting, Idle, Logger-head;
To make't appear that thou art dead,
Nor of doing what the Fooliſh do,
When e're they Sacrifize to you,
Or to explain that thour't more baſe,
Than any of thy God-like race;
Haſt more Impoſture, and leſs Wit,
Than e're was found in Hero yet?
But now I do Conjure thee by
Thy Canting, or thy Prophecy,
To tell me what by Hero's meant,
For I am wholly ignorant:
A Hero is a thing between
A God, and Man (that ne're was ſeen)
Or rather both together join'd,
The Body, Man, the God, the Mind.
If ſo, pray tell me then ſweet heart,
What is come of thy better part?
For thou'rt of all, that's good bereft,
And not one ſpark of Grace haſt left.
Elſe thou ſuch things woud'ſt ne're have don,
As Elbowing Jove, from off his Throne,
For thou did'ſt that, which was the ſame,
By robbing him, of his good name,
And drawing People from his ſhrine,
To make 'em ſacrifize to thine.
Away with this, but you wou'd know,
Where my diviner part is now?
'Tis in Boeotia, where yet,
My old Acquaintance, worſhip it:
Well I don't underſtand, what you,
By all this trade can mean to do,
But thus far, I may truly ſay,
I do believe you're out o'th' way,
And if I muſt, it plainly tell,
I'me ſure you are Entire in Hell.

Readers. Theſe Dialogues will be Publiſh'd every Tueſday and Friday.

Printed for Charles Corbet at the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-lane. 1684.


Numb. 4.LUCIAN.

A Dialogue between Diogenes and Pollux,

SInce Pollux 'tis next morn 'thy right,
To viſit Earth, and view the light;
Bid Menippus the Philoſopher,
The little brook that parts us Croſs over,
Without delay, and make haſt hither,
That we may Crack our ſides together,
For he that here, can't Laugh his fill,
Shall ne're laugh more, by my good will;
Provided that he does not tell ye,
He has already broke his belly:
For ſurely there he'has cauſe enough,
If he be not Peaſe-Porrige Proof.
And tell him tho the folk about
The place he dwells, are much in doubt
How People fare when they are dead,
Of which they nothing know, but Dread,
Here's none below, but what ſtill keep tick
With ſaith; for Hell undoes a Skeptick.
He'll wonder too, when he comes down,
To ſee that men of high Renown,
Shou'd be no more than Ev'ry Gaffer,
And onely ſubjects here of Laughter:
And hardly known, but by their bawling;
A ſort of Helliſh Caterwawling:
Then bid him bring his Cruſts to ſeed on,
With other things that he'll have need on,
For here is nothing to be got,
That's fitting for the Spit or Pot:
Nay here one may, (altho in haſt,)
As ſoon ones Neck break, as ones faſt.
Pray ſir don't make of me a Tool,
And ſend me like an April Fool,
But tell me now before I go,
By what mark I the Spark ſhall know?
Haſt thou not ſeen below the Skie,
Men that cry Silk, and Taffaty,
With tatter'd Cloak on one Arm Toſt,
So Patcht, th' Original is loſt,
Who find out all the ſtrong Bub places
And wear it's livery on their faces:
Juſt ſuch a one is he, you can
Not be miſtaken in the man;
At Corinth you will find him fooling,
Or elſe at Athens Ridiculing,
For the Philoſophers he hates,
And with his Banter breaks their Pates,
Becauſe they bounce, and brag they know,
The truth of ev'ry thing below,
And underſtand too, thoſe above,
As well as Mercury, or Jove,
When they are not ſo wiſe by half,
As Goatham's Mayor, or Waltham's Calf.
If he be ſuch a one, no doubt
But I ſhall quickly find him out;
But have you nought for me to tell.
The Grave Philoſophers from Hell?
Yes, yes, I have, come let me ſee;
Bid 'em leave ſtudying Sophiſtry;
Idle Diſputes, and Arguments,
Which nothing breeds but diſcontents;
Bid 'em forbear the ſearch of Nature
And meddle each, with his own Matter,
And ſpeak their knowledge, at a word
And not be Fools thus on Record:
And then they'll ſay that I'm a fool,
And never learnt my book at School,
So call me Dunce, and ſwear that I
Don't underſtand Philoſophy.
Tell 'em that they muſt cry and bawl,
As loud, as at a Funeral
The Iriſh do, and ev'ry whit
As true, as theirs is all Deceit.
Well, I'le remember what you ſay,
And all your wiſe Commands obey.
As for the mighty men of worth,
Tell 'em I bid you thus hold forth.
Why do you give your ſelves ſuch Pain,
About what's periſhing and vain?
What ſignifies your pomp and ſtate?
Your being Noble, Rich, or Great?
Your vaſt Attendance, and Calaſhes?
When you are faln to Duſt and Aſhes;
And Threed-bare Vicar going firſt,
Cries here's the hole, and in you muſt.
And tell the Smock-fac't Megibus,
And the Wreſtler Damoxenus,
That here ſtrong Back, nor able Thighs,
Nor curled Hair, nor ſparkling Eyes,
Nor all the Charms adorn'd by Art,
In this place ſignifie a Fart.
It ſhall be done, and free from Paſſions,
I'le do your hearty commendations.
Go to the Poor, whom you will ſee,
Groaning beneath their miſery,
And comfort 'em, and tell 'em all,
They muſt no longer howl and bawl,
Since there's no difference when we're dead,
Between the Poor, and Crowned head;
For Monſieur Mors, that ancient Traveller
Was always known, to be a Leveller,
And tell each Spartan to his face,
They are all degenerate and baſe;
That thoſe who us'd to fight with Half-ſtaff,
Are dwindl'd now into a Falſtaff.
If you ſpeak ill of them, good Sir,
I will not be your Meſſenger;
But all the reſt I will obey,
To a Cow's Thumb, (as one may ſay.)
Well, do in that as likes you beſt,
But pray be punctual in the reſt.

Printed for Charles Corbet at the Oxford Arms in Warwick Lane. 1684.


Numb. 5.LUCIAN.


WHat's that you ſaid unto Ʋlyſſes?
Sure you have here no factious Wiſhes,
That you had rather be as Poor,
As thoſe who beg from door to Door;
That want a Belly full of Bread,
And han't a hole to hide their Head:
Than or'e the ſhades a Ruler be,
So much you ſtill hate Monarchy;
But faith and troth you don't do well
To preach theſe Sentiments in Hell,
For here are none but what obey,
And Reverence to their Monarch Pay.
Nor are you worthy of your Name,
Or of the Place from whence you came,
Who like a hardy fool did Chuſe
Your life and fame, and all to loſe.
Such was your fooliſh Zeal, (or Spite)
Than live and do what's Juſt and Right,
Though in full Splendour and Delight.
All this is true, faith honeſt Tory,
But then I thought that worldly Glory,
Was th' onely Summum Bonum tho
I now find that 'twas nothing ſo:
No, notwithſtanding Father Homer,
Said it was ſo, upon his Honour;
With other Modern Poets too,
But I find none of them ſpoke true;
Here Strength, and Handſomneſs, (that rare thing)
Don't ſignifie one ſingle Farthing;
Nor can I find the Grecians (hear me)
Do Reverence or Trojans ſear me.
Nor is here any difference neither,
But juſt like Birds of the ſame feather,
We're all alike and flock together.
Therefore I cou'd wiſh that I were
To breath a little Grecian Air,
Tho at the hazard, (I muſt tell you)
Of being but ſome little Fellow:
Come, come, leave off this murmuring trade
The laws o'th' World muſt be obey'd.
And Nature too muſt have her ſwing
And all Obey Great Order's King:
Beſides your mighty Men are too,
All gon, or dead, as well as you.
Antilochus it is in vain,
To comfort me, I tell you plain,
For I am fill'd with ſtrange Regrets,
Which thoughts of life in me begets.
And you are troubled too (I ſee,)
Tho you diſſemble more than I:
If ſhe not daring to complain
When overwhelm'd with Fear and Pain.
Ben't full as fooliſh, and as vain,
As th' little tricks, that Children play
Upon a Summers Holy-day.
'Tis Reſolution rather tho
To ſuffer with a ſerious Brow;
Yet yours was not ſo I (Profeſs,)
But onely a Fool-hardineſs.
Nor is it wiſedom to Complain,
When by it we no good can gain;
And it is better much, to bear
Ones ſufferings with a chearfull Air,
So one but leave unto his Nation,
An honeſt, ſpotleſs, Reputation,
Than to become a laughing-ſtooll,
By vain complaints to ev'ry Fooll.

Printed for Charles Corbet at the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-lane. 1684.


Numb. 6.LUCIAN.


THe Cow you ſee ſo briskly move,
Friend Zephyrus, was Whore to Jove;
Whom Mercury, his Man, is driving
To Aegypt, there to graze her Living:
I know't, and then ſhe was a Maiden,
As good as ever Leg was lay'd-on;
But Juno's plaguy Jealouſie
Has ſince transform'd her, as you ſee.
And think'ſt thou Jupiter does know it?
Sure if he did, he wou'd not do it;
Yes, yes, he knows it well enough,
And has forbidden us to puff
'Till ſhe's arriv'd, and out of fear;
Beſides ſhe is to lie Inn there;
Her baſtard too, (altho' it odd is,)
Will be a God, and ſhe a Goddeſs;
A Cow a Goddeſs! that's a Bull;
Jove can do any thing you Fool:
Or'e ſailers ſhe will govern too,
And what ſhe pleaſes we muſt do:
'Tis very hard, we muſt not roar
But when commanded by a Whore.
Nay then, betimes let's court the Minion,
To get into her good Opinion:
Our Intereſt ſays it muſt be done,
And all Men court the Riſing-ſun.
See, ſhe's arriv'd upon the plain,
And is a Woman too again,
And goes no longer now on four
But walks like any other Whore.
This is a Miracle! for now
She 'has nought remaining of the Cow,
And Mercury to wait on her
Has turn'd himſelf into a Cur.
Let's curb our Curioſity
For there muſt in't ſome Miſtery be,
But Mercury better knows than we.

A Dialogue betwixt Jupiter, Eſculpaius and Hercules.

LEave off, i'll have no more ſuch ſtirs,
Always a quarrelling ye Curs?
No ſooner I ſit down to table in
The Parlour, but you ſall to ſquabling,
Growling and ſnarling juſt like Dogs,
One might as well go eat with Hogs;
Why father is it fit that he,
Damn'd Quack, ſhou'd take the wall of me?
No Quack you Ruffain as you flout,
But God of Phyſick, abſolute:
A thouſand times your Betters too,
You Clumſie Lubber, Bouteſeau!
Betters! you Clod-Pate undertaker,
This muſt not do, you Piſs-pot ſhaker;
Tho your dull Brains were daſht with Thunder,
And then reſtor'd, the greater Wonder.
It much becomes you Scoundrel tho
To jeer me with my dying ſo,
When you on Oeta, pray compare
Were burnt alive, as Wizards are.
Mine was a voluntary Prank
Thou dull Quack-ſalving Mountebank:
After the Monſters I had hurl'd
To ſeveral Deaths, who'd plagu'd the World;
Whilſt thou, dull ſwaggering Ignoramus
By canting on a Stage grew famous,
And bantring in a Purple-cloak,
So cheating honeſt Country-folk.
But when you came to us ſo mauld,
Grill'd, ſcorcht, and roaſted, fry'd, and ſcawld,
I was your Docter, (Beaſt,) to cure ye
Altho you cannot ſince endure me:
And now I think on't (by the by,)
I never was an Hoſtler, I;
Nor was I ſervant to a Whore,
To make me ſpin from door to Door;
And if my task I did not do,
Be beaten with the Diſtaff too,
Nor did I (ſlay upon my life)
My little Children and my Wife,
As thou didſt lately do, foul beaſt!
Stop your Gally-pot-mouth you'd beſt,
Or elſe Jove's ſelf ſhall not ſecure ye,
From my inveterate Rage and Fury;
I'll make thee cut a Caper down,
From Heaven to Earth (dull ſenſeleſs Clown;
Which ſhall ſo ſhake thy Adle-brains,
That thou with all thy Art and Pains,
To cur't, ſhall find enough to do,
Tho thou art good at probing too.
Leave off damn'd Dogs, or elſe uds boos!
I'll turn ye both out of my Doors:
The Docter's oldeſt, therefore pray
You Clubſter, let him have the way.

Printed for Charles Corbet at the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-lane. 1684.


Numb. 7.LUCIAN.


PRithee Tarpaulin let us ſee,
How much thou art in debt to me?
Leaſt we ſhou'd both forget it, come,
And let's caſt up the total ſumm;
For if we ſhou'd miſtake a Groat,
Thoud'ſt fret, and never mind thy boat.
Reckon Mercury? for my part,
I am content with all my heart.
Imprimis, for thee I lay'd out
To buy an Anchor for thy boat,
Twenty five pence (in ready Duſt)
For honeſt Swabber I'll be juſt.
So much d'you ſay? (I'll vow and ſwear,)
As things go now, that's very dear.
Why faith and troth, what e're you think,
It Coſt ſo much, in ready Chink.
Item, (let me ſee,) two pence more
For that, to which, you tye the Oar.
That's very well, to th' other ſcore
(Pray be exact,) ſet two pence more.
Item, A Needle I did buy,
Which coſt me, four pence half-penny,
To mend the ſails, laſt ſtorm we had;
Add them together now my lad.
Item, For Pitch, and Tar, and Nails,
And a ſmall Rope to hoiſt the ſails,
Juſt ten pence I laid out for you,
That's very reas'nable I vow.
And this is all I think (dear Chroney)
But prithee when wilt pay the Money?
Why truly friend, (I won't harrangue thee,)
But if I have a farthing, hang me:
Yet if the times do mend, I ſwear,
And there ſhou'd come a Plague, or War,
That ſo I might a little juggle,
And now and then the Cuſtome ſmuggle,
I'll pay thee ev'ry farthing (know me)
That thou wilt ſay that I now owe thee.
And i'th mean time I muſt by th'Loſs
Sit down, with folded Arms a-Croſs
And wiſh that Plagues and Miſchiefs may,
Take half the wicked World away,
Before you'll able be to pay me,
Faith 'tis not fair, you ſhou'd delay me.
I ſhan't be able troth before,
(Friend Mercury) to pay thy Score.
I'de rather ne're be paid by thee,
Than all thoſe ſtrange Misfortunes ſee;
But this does put into my head,
A thing relating to the dead;
Why thoſe dye now, ſhou'd differ ſo,
From thoſe folk, who dy'd long ago;
For then they all were brisk and ſtrong,
Plump, fleſhy, vigorous, and young.
And ſeldom with a body whole,
But cut and ſlaſht from feet to poll;
With darts and ſpears, and many a thwack,
Oft' lookt like th' man i'th' Almanack.
Whereas they now are little things,
Moſt dying of their ſurfeitings;
Pale, wan, and weak, and hardly able
To go a hi-lone, by a Table.
Some kill'd by Wine, debauch'd with ſtum
Or drinking, Supernaculum
Others with ſomething elſe, (but Mum)
Some have been ſent too, by their friends
To bring about their private ends.
Others have ſuffer'd by their heirs,
While ſome have pin'd away with cares.
I do not wonder (honeſt friend)
That Int'reſt ſhou'd ſo many ſend;
For 'tis a hard thing now to get
Ones own, tho prov'd, by law a debt:
Therefore much more, to get it by
Ones Labour, or ones Induſtry.
Wonder not than, (for well you know me)
I ſpoke oth'money, that you owe me.


There are lately Publiſh'd ſome Modern Dialogues Intituled Lucian's Ghoſt done out of French, Prin­ted for James Norris at the Kings Arms without Temple-Bar.

Printed for Charles Corbet at the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-lane. 1684.


Numb. 8.LUCIAN.


CHiron I've often heard it told
That thou did'ſt wiſh ('fore thou waſt old)
Death wou'd thy fleſh and ſpirit ſever
Tho thou had'ſt leave to live for ever:
Come prithee tell me why thou waſt
So fond of Death, and in ſuch haſt?
That thou thy ſelf ſhoud'ſt break the Bonds
Of Life; and fall by thy own hands,
As if thou'd'ſt weary bin of breath,
'Cauſe I ſee no ſuch Charms in Death.
I'll tell thee, if thou wilt not teaz me,
Something fell out, that did not pleaſe me,
Which was the cauſe I wou'd not ſtay.
Were you not glad t'enjoy the Day?
No, I had too much diſcontent,
And did'ſt thou ne're for it repent?
No, I was never yet ſo vain,
And 'tis as little to complain.
Beſides 'tis dull to live, ſince we
In life have no Diverſity,
For ſtill we do, (to our great Pain)
The ſame things o're and o're again;
We eat and drink and to our ſorrow,
We drink and eat agen to Morrow;
To Night we ſleep, and dream, and then
Next night we do the ſame agen,
Thirſting, Drinking, Eating, Hunger
So tyred me I'de live no longer.
But how did you ſupport your Death,
When your for it, had ſwopt your Breath?
Without a Grudge, or was I troubl'd,
For here my Pleaſures all are doubl'd?
Here's no Ambition, no great places,
No haughty looks, nor bold Menaces.
No ſtriving to be Rich, or great
But all's Hail-fellow here, well met.
'Tis like a Pop'lar-ſtate, for here
No one muſt huff or domineer;
Where ev'ry Cobler is as free
And of as high Nobility,
As any man dare ſhew his face,
Or live, in ſuch a Govern'd place:
And what care I (for my delight)
Whether it be or day or night,
And then we'ave this advantage too;
We neither eat nor drink below,
Nor are we Plagu'd with Thirſt or Hunger,
(Which than a ſtone Wall's counted ſtronger)
Or with any other Clogs of Life,
Or with that Curſed plague a Wife;
Obedience unto friends, or kin,
Or any other idle ſin.
Nor do we Covet this man's Coney,
Or that man's houſe or Patrimony,
Here we are never wanting neither
Of ſhelter, from the ſtormy Weather,
And let the froſt be ne're ſo furious,
Unto our Poor 'tis ne're Injurious.
Nor do they howl, or bawl, for Bread,
Or are the wealthy ſurfeited.
But all are here alike and free
from mortal Inconveniency.
Chiron take heed you do not do
What you wou'd willingly eſchew,
And ſo relapſe (as if decoy'd)
Into the fault you wou'd avoid:
For if thy life (to thee) was pain
By doing the ſame things or'e again,
Sure now thou'ſt 'cauſe to grieve ſince we
In Hell, have no variety.
Tell me Menippus (if it Pleaſe thee)
What I muſt do to make me Eaſie.
Why, what was done in former Ages
To gain Content by th' Antient Sages,
And to believe what can't be cur'd
In life, or death, may be endur'd.

Printed for Charles Corbet at the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-lane. 1684.


Numb. 9.LUCIAN.


BY Pluto! I demand the Cauſe
Why thou doſt thus, Proteſilaus?
No ſooner thou art enter'd Hell in,
But ſtraight thou Kick'ſt and Buffets Helen;
And fal'ſt upon her in ſuch manner,
As if thou'd'ſt make a Devil on her.
Furies and Hell! pray is not ſhe,
The cauſe of all my miſery?
Such Wheed'ling things, the Baggage did do,
That my poor Wife liv'd (like) a Widdow;
Beſides my Family was ſpoyl'd,
For by her means I had no Child.
Ud's Death! bang him who was the cauſe,
That (to'ther Cuckold) Menelaus,
Who to thoſe Miſchiefs led thee on,
By which thou fairly, art undon?
By Heaven! that is truly ſaid,
Have at thy Plotting Loggerhead!
Hold, hold: you are beſide the ſaddle
Or elſe your Coxcombs brains are addle;
Tis not with me, but Monſieur Paris,
(If you will do the thing that fair is,)
You ought to Quarrel with, for he;
Sans Right of hoſpitallity
Debauch't my Wife, and (as you knew well,)
Raviſh't away my precious Jewel.
The Baſtard like a Thief wou'd come
I'th' Night, when I was drunk as Drum,
And firk the Gipſie'bout the Bum.
My ſervants bribe, and for a Whimſie
Wou'd often hide himſelf i'th' Chimme,
With Scaling Ladders, (made of Garters,)
He'd often mount into her Quarters.
For this he well deſerves a banging,
and (for what elſe I know) a hanging
The Trojans reaſon have to hate him.
The Greeks when er'e they can, will beat him.
Both ſides ſo hate the Curſed Elf
That now he may go hang himſelf
For want of one to do the favour,
(So ſave ſome body elſe, a Labour,)
All that have loſt their lives of late,
Have reaſon too the Fool to hate.
He led them on to their undoing
And on himſelf and them brought Ruine.
Thou doubly damn'd to Hell! with Clods,
I'll break thy Head, by all the God's:
I'll ſtrangle then away thy breath,
For gulling Men ſo into Death,
Nay, flinch not Dog, for I'll aſſure thee,
Now, thou ſha't feel my Rage and Fury.
Truly I think Proteſilaus
Your angry now without a Cauſe.
For you your ſelf a Votary
Are to the ſelf ſame Deity:
Beſides you know we're forc'd to do
What e're he's pleas'd to lead us to.
'Tis true, that God is much to blame,
And is th' chief Cauſe of all our ſhame.
He might have ſaid tho if he wou'd
Thou drew'ſt upon thy ſelf thy blood,
Since thou muſt needs run puſhing on,
To purchaſe Honour and Renown,
And ſo waſt chopt to death (before)
Thou waſt well landed on the ſhore,
Forgetting that thou had'ſt a Whore.
I rather ſhou'd complain of Heaven,
To leave me thus at ſix and ſeven;
And Deſtiny that curſed Jade,
That I ſhou'd now be thus betray'd;
Nay, faith and troth it was not Civil,
To ſend one headlong thus to th' Devil.
Blame and accuſe whom e're you pleaſe,
But let theſe People live at eaſe;
And leave off all this fooliſh ſtuff,
For Hell without it's bad enough.

Printed for Charles Corbet at the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-lane, 1684.


Numb. 10.LUCIAN.


MErc'ry do'ſt know that Fellow there?
Who's old, and rich, but wants an Heir,
On whom ſo many people wait
In hopes he'll leave 'em his Eſtate.
D'you mean the Sicyonian?
The very ſame Grey-hair'd old Man.
And prithee Merc'ry do not grudge
To be unto his Age a Crutch;
And let him live and Guzzle on,
Untill thoſe Fools are dead and gone;
Who after him ſo often dance,
Expecting his Inheritance.
Do this and you'll obliege me too,
In troth you will, I prithee do?
No, 'tis unjuſt to kill the Young,
And let the Aged live ſo long.
Beſides, the like was never known,
'Tis turning Nature upſide down.
Come nimble Tongue you are miſta'ne,
'Tis very juſt as I'le explain:
For why ſhou'd they have his Eſtate,
Who by no way to him Relate;
And 'fore his Face to gain his favour
Deſire he may live for ever?
Make Vows in publick for his Health,
As if they valu'd not his Wealth:
When privately they wiſh him cold,
That they may ſhare his Bags of Gold.
Therefore good Merc'ry ſee it done,
He ought t' out-live 'em ev'ry one:
And tho perhaps it make 'em ſnort all,
Let 'em believe he is Immortall.
And now I think on't faith they do
Deſerve to be all Puniſh'd ſo,
Becauſe each Dog may have his due.
But that which pleaſes me the moſt,
Is to obſerve how they are toſt,
By him from Pillar (back) to Poſt.
For ſtill 'fore them he ſeems a dying,
With all his Fam'ly round him Crying;
Tho when they're gone he's very well,
And drinks, and eats a hearty Meal:
And this to make 'em all redouble
Their Aſſiduity and Trouble;
That as their hopes (of Death) increaſes,
They may improve their kind Careſſes;
For he much pleaſure takes to teaze 'em,
And is reſolved ne'er to pleaſe 'em.
But now I am afraid at laſt
They'll want the Means to break their Faſt,
By over eagerneſs to get
Another's Wealth to make 'em Great.
Therefore becauſe they've bin ſo vain,
Let him be brisk and young again.
To boaſt and brag let them have no cauſe,
But make him ſtrong again like Jolaus.
And for their parts let me Intreat it,
That to the Guts they may be fretted,
To ſee their greedy hopes defeated.
In Dreams let him his Wealth be ſharing,
Thinking them dead as any Herring,
But when they waking find it not,
Let each man cut his proper Throat.
But Maſter Pluto (I aſſure you)
You ought not to inſtruct Mercury;
Come let me ſee, (then he did wink,
And cry'd) they're ſeven juſt (I think)
I'le bring 'em all, one after t'other,
(Each Son of Whore, or honeſt Mother.)
D'b'uy and then you'll pleaſe me too,
But pray take heed in what you do,
And let the old Man (free from cares)
Out-live's Imaginary Heirs.

Printed for Charles Corbet at the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-lane. 1684.




THOU Great Triumvirate of Pates!
And Porter of th' Infernal Gates;
Tell me, when Socrates came down,
What Face and Humour, wore the Clown?
Deal frankly with me, ſince we are,
(As well as Cyniques) Chronies here:
For as you are a God, you can;
Or bark like Dog, or talk like Man.
At firſt he ſullen was, and Mute,
Seem'd very bold, and Reſolute;
And fain wou'd paſs for one that ne'er
Was ſhokt by death, or ſhak'd by fear:
And did behave himſelf, as well,
At's death, as any he, in Hell:
But when within theſe ſhades his foot
He'ad ſet, (and drawn the other to't)
The ('fore ſo ſtout, then) trembling Spark,
Did quake and ſhake, to ſee't ſo Dark.
And when my twice-three Ears I ſhook,
He lookt juſt like one Thunder-ſtrook.
But when I ſnarl'd at him, and groul'd,
And with my gaping three-mouths howl'd:
Snapt at his Shins, (and's Stockins Spoyl'd)
He cry'd (and bellow'd) like a Child;
Tormenting's ſelf, as if he had,
Been drunk (with Nants) or Raving Mad.
If ſo, as far as I can gather,
Than Valiant, he a Cheat was rather,
And did not when he hither Coaſted
Deſpiſe and bear death as he boaſted.
Yes, when he ſaw (I muſt confeſs)
That on he muſt without redreſs,
He ſhew'd ſome Courage, and ('tis ſaid;)
He did not ſeem to be diſmay'd;
But bore it with as bold a Brow,
As the occaſion wou'd allow;
And lookt, as if 'twas not Neceſſity,
But pure Chance-Medly in Adverſity:
Tho I believ'd 'twas partly done,
To be admir'd by th' Lookers on:
Or, to beget the Reputation,
Of Stout, he dy'd that ſurly faſhion.
The ſame too may be ſaid of moſt,
Who for that Cauſe, came to our Coaſt:
They're wond'rous Valiant juſt before,
But when they come to th' very Door;
The boldeſt Spirit of 'em fails,
(And look like Dogs, that hang their Tails.)
But Cerb'rus what canſt ſay of me?
When I came down to viſit thee.
Thou art a Worthy brave Philoſopher,
And boldly didſt the Ferry croſs over,
As Great Diogenes did before thee,
(If there be any truth in Story).
I'le ſwear for thee, thou cam'ſt not here
Unwillingly, by force, or fear,
But in a chearful manner, Gay,
Tickling, and Smiling all the way;
As if you had nought elſe to do,
But to be merry here below;
While others in this place are Weeping,
And alwayes ſuch a Noiſe are Keeping;
One had as good be in a Mill,
(In troth 'tis true) as live in Hell.

A Dialogue between Jupiter, and Ganymede.

HOW is't, my pretty One? Come, ſpeak,
Now I have neither Claw, nor Beak;
You'l Kiſs me ſure: you need not Fear,
Nothing, my Love ſhall Hurt you here.
Where are they then? I'me zure that you,
A Hugeous Eagle, was but now:
Vor as I did my Vathers Zheep,
Upon our Vurzie Common keep;
You Zwopt me up, while I lay Kicking,
As if I'de been a Tiny Chicken.
How cou'd you do it, pray? Vor now,
You look as our Town-Zhepherds do;
And are a Man, I vancy too.
I'me neither Man, nor Eagle, Love;
But King of all the the Pow'rs Above:
Who ſo Transform'd my ſelf to be,
More Strong and Fit, to Carry thee.
But tell me Grandzir, if you can,
Who 'tis you are? Or are you Pan?
Yet now I think more on the Matter,
He looks as Wild, as any Zatyr.
Horns on his Head, and Cloven Paw,
With Hairy Feet, and Pipe of Straw;
The only Marks, I know him by.
Know'ſt thou no other Deity?
Not I, d'you think I'de tell you Lies:
But ev'ry Year we Zacrivize,
To him a Goat, in his own Cave,
Becauſe he zhou'd our Cattle Zave;
But you, vor all you're zuch a Ztrapper,
I vear, are but zome zly Kidnapper;
Who Get your Living by Decoys,
And Mony make, of Little Boys.
Didſt thou ne'er hear, of Mighty Jove?
Whoſe Temple is in Ida's Grove,
Who Lightens Heaven at his Pleaſure;
And Thunders People ſo together.
O yes, is't you who make that Noiſe,
And Vrighten Women zo, and Boys:
To whom my Vather, ev'ry year,
Does Zacrivize a Ram for Vear,
He ſhou'd make Bread, and Butter Dear.
But why did you znatch me away?
The Woolf, will all my Lamkins, Zlay.
Thou think'ſt of nothing, but thy Sheep;
Thou'rt now Immortal, and muſt keep
Dull Brutes no more; but Live with me,
And ever keep Gods Company.
But won't you zet me down again?
No: All my Labour's then in Vain.
But my poor Dad, will Nangry be,
If he his Boy ſhou'd never zee;
And Beat me 'cauſe I left my Zheep.
Fear not, I will thee alwayes keep.
Don't keep me now; I pray now, don't,
I wonnot ztay now, that I won't.
Yet, if you will but let me go;
I'le Zacrivize a Ram to you.
How ſimple is this pretty Boy;
Come ben't diſmay'd, Chear up my Joy:
You muſt forget all things below,
My Nubſie, you're in Heaven now,
And may do good unto your Friends;
And never think on private Ends.
You ſhall no longer be a Boy,
But have what e'er the God's Enjoy.
Inſtead of Butter, Cheeſe, and Whey,
Have Nectar, and Ambraſia:
And have your Star amongſt the Reſt,
And Shine as Glorious, as the Beſt.
That's mighty Brave: But Zir, if I
Wou'd Play, Who'll keep me Company?
For when I was on Ida's Hill,
I had my Playvellows at Will.
Cupid, my Lad, ſhall Play with thee,
If thou wilt Brisk, and Chearful be:
For he's as Arch a Wagg, as thou;
But mind no more the Things below.
I marry Zir! that's pure indeed,
But have you any Vlocks to Veed?
Elſe what ſhall I do here Above?
Thou ſhalt be Cup-bearer to Jove,
And fill him Nectar little Love.
Is that zo good as Milk, and Whey?
Better, my Joy by far, than they;
And thou ſhalt Drink it ev'ry day.
Where muſt I Lye a Nights, Zir tho?
With Cupid, my Vine Playvellow:
No, no, with me; my pretty One.
What, are you 'vraid to lye alone?
'Tis better with a pretty Lad;
Zure you are Drunk good Zir, or Mad;
What good can Pretty do a Bed?
When Zleep is got into ones Head.
Sleep 's not ſo Pleaſant, when Alone;
Two is much better (Dear) than One.
When I lay with my Vather, he
Did alwayes vex, and vret at me;
Becauſe I zuch a doo did keep,
Tumbling, and talking in my Zleep:
And Puncht him on the zides and head,
And kickt him almoſt out oth' Bed,
That he wou'd zend me to my Mother,
I allwayes kept zuch ztir and pother,
If you took me vor this Idain,
You'l quickly zet me down again.
I than thy Father love thee more,
I'le kiſs and handle thee all o're:
Beſides, I've other things in ſtore.
You may do what you will, and keep
What ztir you pleaze, but I will Zleep.
We'll talk of this another day.
Here! take him (Mercury) away,
And ſee'm drink Imortality,
That he may ſerve's in Quallity;
Of Cupbearer, and teach the Fool,
To make a Leg, and give the Bowl.

A Dialogue between Crates and Diogenes.

DID you know that Old Cinque and Cater,
Who ſuch a ſtir made on the Water;
With Ships and Boats of ev'ry ſize,
As if th' Sea he'd Monopolize?
He liv'd at Corinth in the High Houſe,
His Name was (let me ſee) Maerichus;
Whoſe Couſin was, as great a Raſcal
As ever drank of Wine a flaſque all
Believe me, or his Neighbours, ask All;
And full as Rich, and Old as he,
And had as much Frigidity;
As near, and Covetous he was,
And ev'ry whit as much an Aſs:
Repeating ſtill that piece of Honour,
Deliver'd to the World by Homer:
Into his Ears, Do thou kill me,
Chuſe which thou wilt, or I' e Kill thee:
'Tis pitty that we both ſhou'd live,
Let him take all who muſt Survive;
For you muſt know, they had made over
Their whole Eſtates to one another;
Conſulted all the South-ſayers,
Conjurers and Aſtrologers,
To know whom Monſieur Mors his Worſhip
Wou'd give it all, by Survivorſhip.
But theſe Damn'd ſcoundrels, one wou'd Wheedle
And then the other Trout, they'd tickle;
So both of them a while were eas'd
Tho neither of 'em Thro'ly pleas'd;
For all thoſe Fellows at the beſt,
Are Cheats, and prate for Intereſt.
But what became on't, Prithee Crates.
Why I will tell thee what their fate was:
They both together on a day,
Dropt into th' Grave (as one may ſay)
And left their Riches all to them,
They ne're ſo much as in a Dream,
Did ever think of, or the (Wench-on)
Conjurers did ever Mention.
I'm glad on't Faith, it makes me Jolly,
And much delights me: but ſuch Folly,
By thou and I, was ne're Committed;
Or were we e're ſo baſely Cheated:
(Such fooliſh idle things, but mean is,)
I never wiſh'd that Antiſthenes
Wou'd die, and leave his Oaken Plant
To me, tho I ſtood then in want:
Or, didſt thou ever wiſh for mine,
That Tub, and Scrip, might both be thine.
That's true, becauſe we were content
With that ſmall Stock kind Fortune ſent;
And I thought 'twas enough t' Inherit
Thy Virtues, and thy God-like Spirit:
As thou had'ſt done, on the ſame Score,
By Great Antiſthenes before.
Which Wealth is more to be deſir'd,
Tho not of late ſo much Admir'd;
You ne're ſaw any come to us,
To learn how to be Virtuous;
Whereas you ſee they never fail
Purſuing Riches, Tooth and Nail;
While others ſtriving to be Great,
Admiring Titles, Pomp and State;
Will live on Pottage, Herbs and Carrot,
So they may hurry't in a Chariot,
Attended on by tatter'd Pages,
With Lanthorn Jaws, ſtarv'd at Board-Wages,
Which ne're was known in former Ages.
It is no Wonder this to ſee,
Their Souls are ſpoyl'd by Luxury:
They're void of Honour, and ſo Vain,
They cannot any good contain:
They're like th' Bellides here in Hell,
Whoſe Barrel runs out faſter ſtill,
Than they have Power and Strength to fill:
But ſhou'd you dare to be ſo bold
As Venture, but to touch their Gold,
So much to good men they are helps,
You might as well a Lyoneſs Rob of Whelps.
Beſides, this Comfort too we have,
We carry all our Wealth to th' Grave;
Whileſt they (than us) do bring no more,
So leave behind 'em all their Store:
And honeſt Charon (if they've any)
Does eaſe 'em of their laſt poor Penny:
VVhich is thruſt in their Mouths by thoſe
Who put 'em on their Bur'ing Cloaths.

A Dialogue between Charon, Mercury, (a Company of Dead Men,) Menippus, Charmoleus, Lampichus, Damaſias, a Philoſopher, and a Rhetorician.

COme Liſten, All, to what I ſay,
My Ferry-Boat's gone to Decay;
It Leaks, is Old, and very Rotten,
Beſides, my Bench and Oars are Broken;
Therefore ſit ſtill, and Trim it well,
Or elſe, twon't Carry you to Hell:
For here's ſo many come together,
That if we ſhou'd but have foul Weather,
Their Luggage is fo very Great,
They will my Wherry Over-ſet:
Then thoſe that cannot Swim, will be,
In a pretty Pickle preſently.
The Dead.
What ſhall we do than, prithee Charon?
For to get over Acheron?
I'le tell you, you muſt come as bare,
As when you firſt breath'd Grecian Air;
And leave your Trumpery on the Shore,
And ne'r ſo much as think on't more.
And ſince my Boat's ſo very Small,
'Tis well if then it hold ye All.
Be it thy Charge too, Meſſenger,
T' Examine ev'ry Paſſenger.
That none but half-Stav'd Fellows come,
Expecting in my Wherry Room.
Take Care too, and be ſure you Mind 'em,
To leave their Baggage all behind 'em;
Then on the Ladder ſtand Equipt,
And force 'em all to enter Stript.
I will Obey, and now let's ſee,
Who 'tis comes firſt oth' Company.
'Tis I, Menippus, who am come,
To be a little Troubleſome.
Tho I have thrown into the Lake,
My Staff, and Wallet, for the ſake
Of eaſy Waftage: And 'tis well,
I brought no Gown, nor Surſingle;
(Tho if the Naked Truth. were known,
In all my Life, I ne'r had One.)
Enter Menippus to the Sculler,
Thou beſt of Men, before 'tis fuller;
And take the Higheſt Place, that thou,
From thence may'ſt ſee, what others do;
But who is this that comes to ſee us?
I am the Lovely Charmoleus,
Who for a Kiſs, took as much Money's,
As wou'd have Purchaſt'd Fifty Coneys.
Caſt off your Beauty, and your Pride,
Your Lips, Red-Cheeks, and Hair beſide:
And do not think to enter in
To Hell, and ſleep in a Whole Skin;
But pull it off, and do not Venture.
'Tis Well, ſo now you'r fit to Enter.
But what Grim Sir is that, when Dead,
Dares Venture with a Crown On's Head?
I am Prince Lampichus of Gela.
Why thus Loaden, prithee Fellow?
Why ſhou'd a Prince come Naked too?
A Prince ſhou'd not; but Dead Men do.
Therefore put off your Ornaments.
There Lye, my Rich Habiliments:
And you muſt put off too, (beſide,)
Your Hanghty-Looks, your State, and Pride;
For if they Enter, you ſhall ſee,
They'l Sink the Boat immediately.
Let me but keep my Robe, and Crown:
No, you muſt even them lay down.
There then, what more have I to do?
You muſt put off your Fury too.
To Wit, and Knowledge, your pretence,
Your Cruelty, and Inſolence.
See, I am Naked to the Skin,
'Tis very well, Now Enter in.
What great Fool's this? (Fat as an Oſtler.)
I am Damaſias the Wraſtler.
I thought ſo, you Iv'e often ſeen.
True, therefore Naked, let me in.
You are not Naked Underſtood,
When Cloath'd with all this Fleſh, and Blood:
Therefore pray Strip; nay, you muſt do't,
And Caſt away your Crowns to Boot;
For elſe your Waight will Sink the Boat.
See, I Obey, and am Induſtrious,
To make my Slender Ghoſt Illuſtrious! *
*See an E­legy on Prince Rupert.
So, now come in, for thou'rt, as Fit,
As any ever Enter'd yet:
You Crato, throw away your Riches,
You that Wore Coats, inſtead of Breeches;
And bring not here your Poetrie,
Your Titles, nor your Pedigree.
Your Statues neither, which for Mony
The City did beſtow upon you:
And ſpeak not of your Tomb, for that
From the Remembrance gathers weight.
Well I will do't, for who that lives,
But needs muſt go, when th' Devil drives.
Bleſs me! I think the man is mad,
What carry Trophies now you'r dead?
Who for this Honour wou'd not ſtrive,
When 'twas a Cities Donative.
Come leave your Arms t' your living Race,
For Hell's a very civil Place:
What ſhade is that? who does behave
Himſelf ſo well and looks ſo Grave?
Who knits his brows, in ſuch ſtrange faſhion,
And is ſo fill'd with Contemplation;
And wears ſo very long a Beard,
(Enough to make a Horſe afear'd.)
He is, Mercury, a Philoſopher,
Who in one hand two Eggs can toſs over:
A Jugler, Mountebank or Zainye,
Who can be ev'ry thing to any:
Strip him and you ſhall ten to one,
Find Pretty things beneath his Gown.
Come, lay aſide your Gown and Dreſs,
And let's behold your Nakedneſs.
O Jupiter! What Ignorance,
Intricate Notions, Arrogance,
Vain-Glory, Trifles, and Contention,
(With many more too long to mention)
Did this proud Fellow car 'about him
(That he'l be nothing ſure without 'em:)
Pleaſures and Gold too, (by the bye,)
With Wantoneſs and Luxury;
All this I know, tho you'd it hide;
Caſt off your Lying too, and Pride;
Your fond Conceit, that you are bleſt
With Gifts far better than the beſt;
For if you enter burden'd ſo,
A firſt Rate Ship won't carry you.
Since you will have it ſo, 'tis done,
Pull off his Beard which is ſo long,
There's no enduring't, 'tis ſo ſtrong:
And does in filth ſo much abound,
I do believe it weighs a pound.
But who ſhall cut it Mercury?
Menippus, he'll do't Cleverly:
Here, take the Axe with which the Boat
We mend, but have a care of's Throat;
And Chop it off, 'twill ſave a Groat.
Lend me the Saw: for that will do,
And't's more Ridiculous o'th' two.
No, do't with Axe now if you can:
So, now you look like any man;
Now this Damn'd Plaguey ſtink is gon:
But ſhall I leave his Eye-brows on?
O Yes, for thoſe he us'd when he,
Did ſtrive to look moſt Piouſly:
What, doſt thou cry? (O fooliſh Man)
Afraid of Death! Come enter than.
He ſtill hath one thing ſtrong I ſee.
What is't?
Confounded Flattery.
Do you Menippus than lay by
Your Boldneſs, Joques, and Liberty.
By no means; keep them ſtill, for they
Being light, will help us in our way:
And you too Pleader, pray lay by
Your Similitudes and Oratory;
Your Barbariſms, and other Trade,
Which you Damn'd Rhetoricians made.
'Tis done.
'Tis well, now ſet from ſhore,
Pull up the Anchor, Ply the Oar;
Haul in the Ladder, ſpread the Sayle:
Now for a brisk and nimble Gale.
Look to the Stern there, you can tell
Charon beſt how; Hey! Hey! for Hell.
Why howle ye Fools? What, are ye afear'd,
Sure thou cry'ſt, 'cauſe thou'ſt loſt thy Beard.
No, 'tis (tho ye on me retort all)
Becauſe I thought the Soul Immortal.
He lies, he does not weep for that;
Prithee Menippus than for what?
Becauſe he can't be invited more,
To Coſtly Suppers as before;
Nor muffled up ſteal forth by Night,
To pleaſe his Beaſtly Appetite;
When he's not able for to do,
What Nature calls Mankind unto;
Yet he next Morn does Wiſdom Preach,
And Virtue does pretend to Teach:
And takes mens Money too, to do't;
Theſe are the things that grieve the Sot.
Art thou not troubled, being dead?
Thou art a ſilly Loggerhead
To think ſo, when I made a Venture,
And came my ſelf, 'fore I was ſent for.
But heark from Earth, I hear a Noiſe!
'Tis a Company of Men and Boyes;
Who are met together to be Merry,
Since Lampichus came into th' Wherry:
The Women Maull his Wifes poor bones,
VVhile at his Children Boys throw Stones:
Others in Sycyconia Praiſe,
And him Diophantus gives the Bayes;
For the Oration he did bawl,
At our Friend Crato's Funeral:
Damaſias's Mother too i'th' Faſhion,
VVith other Fools makes Lamentation:
But no body Menippus cries,
To Celebrate thy Obſequies.
Not ſo, for when they bury me,
You'l hear the Doggs bark Dolefully:
The Crows ſhall beat their VVings, and all
To Solemnize my Funeral.
Thou'rt Valiant to a Miracle;
So, now we are arriv'd at Hell:
Go all to th' Court of Juſtice ſtraight,
VVhile I and Charon get more Fraight.
Farewel Mercury, we will on;
And ſee what here is to be done.
VVhat will become of you my Friends?
You muſt b' Arraign'd; beſides the Fiends
Have ſtrange Prodigious Methods here
To Puniſh; ſome with Wheels they Tear,
Some they Expoſe in Frozen Parts,
Where Vultures prey upon their Hearts.
Others do Maull their fleſh and bones,
By Rolling weighty Craggy Stones;
While others are with Serpents Laſht,
And into boyling Caldrons daſht.
Here all your thoughts will open'd be
That ev'ry one Accordingly,
May have his Juſt reward of Miſery.

A Dialogue between Pluto and Terpſion.

IT is Unreaſonable Pluto,
That I ſhou'd Dye ſo Youthful (you know;)
And that at Ninety-Odd, Thucritus
Shou'd ſtill remain Alive, to Spite us.
You are miſtan'e; tis very Juſt,
That ſuch baſe men ſhou'd ſtill dye firſt:
For thoſe alone deſerve to Live,
Who Wiſh their Friends, and Kin 'may Thrive;
And thoſe do Merit well the Grave,
Who Wiſh Folks Dead, their Wealth to have.
But is't not Juſt, the Old ſhou'd Dye,
And leave their Gold to ſuch as I?
Thou mak'ſt new Laws, when thou doſt Wiſh,
That thoſe who can't Enjoy the Fleſh,
Shou'd be no more: Beſides, 'tis Vain,
For Heav'n (certainly) did Ordain,
More Stranger Things than this ſhou'd be:
(And that from all Eternity.)
'Tis their Decrees that I too Blame;
Beſides, methinks it is a Shame,
That Old Men ſhou'd remain ſo long,
And Death take off, the Brisk, and Young:
As for Example (mind I pray)
That an Old Fellow doting Grey,
With Palſy, Pox, and Gout, at once,
A ſniveling fribbling Bag of Bones,
Who makes no other Uſe of's Senſes,
Than peſtring People with Pretences;
A Walking Church-yard, Living Grave,
A Frigid, Senſeleſs, Teſty Knave,
Shou'd Live, when ſuch Young Men as I,
Who Brisk, and Vigorous are, muſt Dye.
'Tis juſt like one who's made by Force
A Slave, for better, and for worſe,
Where th' Gray Mare, proves the better Horſe.
Or other wayes t' Expreſs the Thing,
Like Rivers, mounting to their Spring;
But at the laſt, I think 'tis Vain,
Since we know nothing, to Complain.
Why do you than ſo much admire,
And what is other men's, deſire?
Why ſo much Love do you pretend,
To Rich Old Men? (and call 'em Friend;)
Wheadle them too, to call you Son,
As if your buſineſs then were done;
To make us Laugh at you, when they,
Attend you to your Houſe of Clay.
For it is Pleaſant (Troth) to us,
To ſee men Brisk and Vigorous,
Carreſs Old Age, and be Enamour'd,
VVith what's ſo Fulſome and Ill-favour'd;
Yet this ye only do when They're
Or Childleſs, or without an Heir;
Then you in hopes to get their Gold,
Direct your Courtſhip to the Old.
Gold! which can make the Aged Young,
The Cripple VValk, the Feeble Strong,
The Ʋgly Handſome, Swarthy Fair,
And teach the Cunning Knave to Swear;
May well perſwade you, for I ſee,
All Humane-kind ſo Worſhip me,
That Gold's their only Deity.
But theſe Old Men oft Countermine,
And pay you off in your own Coyn;
For if it happen to their Lot,
That many Children they have Got;
They will pretend 'fore you t' abuſe 'em,
And Beat, and Thump, and baſely Uſe 'em,
That they may be by you preſented,
And your Vain hopes in part contented:
Yet when Grim Death, on them does call,
They'l Settle on their Children All,
As Nature at the Firſt deſign'd it;
(I wiſh that all the VVorld wou'd mind it,)
And not make all this Factious 'Do,
But give to ev'ry one their Due;
VVhile you may eaſily count your Gains,
And take your Labour for your Pains.
And this it is ſpoyls my Content,
For I a VVorld of Mony ſpent,
In Courting this Old Hypocrite,
This Fumbling Limberham'd Thucrite:
For ev'ry day he had the hick up,
VVhich made me think, he ſtraight wou'd kick up;
And caus'd me to preſent him double,
That I my Rivalls all might bubble;
Which I believe (I Vow and Swear)
Was the Cauſe of my coming here:
For I in nothing cou'd delight,
Nor did I ſleep by Day or Night.
And tho of Gloves I made a Cap well,
I cou'd not ſteal a Nap i'th' Chappel;
At which this Curſed Dogg did flout,
VVhen the Old Women lay'd me out.
Old Heart of Oak! Hold up thy Head
And ſee 'em all as door-nail Dead.
I wiſh Chariades might dye,
Before him too, as well as I.
Melanthus, Phido, all ſhall come,
I have already read their Doom.
That pleaſes me to th' Heart, and Liver,
Happy Thucritus! Live for Ever.

A Dialogue between Notus and Zephyrus.

D'b'uy! Friend Zephyrus, I have been,
Where I more rarer Sights have ſeen,
Than e'er I ſaw before, (I vow)
Tell me dear Zeph. ſaw'ſt thou 'em too?
Not I in troth, I kept my Station,
And Laboring was in my Vocation,
Toward the Indies I was blowing
And only ſaw what there was doing.
The Bantamer I ſaw, (for ſhapes)
As Comely as a Jackanapes,
(Tho ſome large Monkeys, I ſuppoſe,
I've ſeen more handſome 'bout the Noſe:)
Some other Beaſts too I ſaw there,
But nothing elſe I vow and ſwear.
Well, well! ſay what you will 'tis vain,
The like can ne'er be ſeen again:
Do'ſt know King Agenor my Lad?
The beautiful Europa's Dad?
You are i'th' Right, 'tis ſhe I mean
To ſpeak of now, (a pretty Quean)
And you know Jove that Rampant Woer,
Had long ſince a Months mind unto her:
So far you're right, but what came on't,
I'm ſure your'e wholly Ignorant:
Yet I will tell thee, therefore put-on
Grave Looks, while I the Tale unbutton:
She be'ng one morn 'on the Sea ſhore
With her Play-fellows (ten or more)
At Hide-and-ſeek, and Priſon-bace,
Hot-cockles, Leap-frogg, and Clap-A
Jove came i'th' form of Milk-white-Bull,
To VVheedle and Kidnap the Trull;
Leaping and Cap'ring to delight her,
And tame as any Lamb, t' envite her:
VVhich ſhe obſerving, (ſtraight the Gull)
Reſolves to back, and Ride the Bull:
So on ſhe flings her ſelf a-ſtride,
No ſooner pleas'd, but up and Ride;
VVhen ſtraight the Bull with furious haſt
Into the Briniſh Ocean daſht;
VVhile ſhe with hand on's Horn did ſit,
And lookt as if ſhe'd been beſh
The Wind blew ſo, ſhe had no fence,
Nor Vaile to hide her Twenty-Pence:
VVith head behind ſhe thus ſate bawling,
And on her ſcar'd Companions calling.
Is this the Exc'lent Show (you Lout)
VVhich you have made ſuch ſtir about?
Jove turn'd a Bull, and on his back
To Spirit away a ſilly Crack.
You'll like it well I do not doubt,
VVhen you have heard the Story out;
For ſtraight the Winds left off their Clutter,
The Foaming Ocean ceas'd to ſputter;
So gen'ral was the Quiet Dreſs,
Nature's whole ſelf ſeem'd Motionleſs;
A Thouſand Cupids flutter'd round,
(To grace the ſhow,) with Roſes Crown'd:
Some cut the Air with nimble Motion,
VVhile others Caper'd on the Ocean:
So brisk and Airy ſtill they trod,
There was not one of 'em wet-ſhod:
And what was ſtrange, not one o'th' Hoſt faild,
Tho not a Boy of 'em was Froſt-Nail'd:
Some carry'd Links, (altho 'twas day)
Others ſung Ballads all the way;
As Colly-Cow, and th' Ladies fall,
VVith Hey Boyes up go we (and all.)
Next came a Troop of Gods o'th' Sea,
With Oyſter-ſhells, Arm'd Capapea:
The Nymphs too ſcorn'd to be behind,
When ſuch a buſineſs was i'th' Wind.
Theſe mixt together as they went,
And made a motly Regiment.
Each one upon a Fiſh did Ride,
Or God, or Goddeſs, all a-ſtride;
And 'twas a pretty ſight to ſee,
Each Nereid naked to the Knee:
But that which ſet me all on fire,
Was when I ſaw a litter higher:
The Tritons too did there reſort,
And play'd their tricks to make 'em ſport:
Neptune and Amphitrite were there,
T' attend their Brother Jupiter,
To give the Bride, as 'tis the Faſhion
On ſuch Occaſions, in that Nation:
But one thing I forgot to tell,
Venus was there too, in her Shell,
By Tritons drawn, enough to ſcare one,
Scattering of Flowers, on the Fair one:
Briskly in faith ſhe lay'd about her,
The ſight had nothing been without her
Thus Jove Travel'd with his ſweet one,
From off Phenicia to Crete on:
When ſtraight he chang'd his Beaſtly ſhapes,
And lookt a God; at which the Trapes
To ſee him thus ſo finely 'quipt,
Lookt juſt as if ſhe had been Whipt:
Then to the private Cave Dutean,
He lead the ſilly bluſhing Quean,
And did You know, you know what I mean.
At which the Sea Gods all went home,
The Winds too blew, the Sea did Roam;
All that did thither then reſort,
Withdrew and left 'em to their Sport.
I envy thee, (by this good Light)
The Pleaſure of this Pleaſant Sight,
Which but related gives Delight.


LUcian's Dialogues, done into Engliſh Burleſque, the Firſt Part: Printed for William Bateman, next the Kings Head Inn, in the Old-Change. 1684.


About this transcription

TextThe scoffer scoffed the second part. Being certain select dialogues of a merry wagg of antiquity. Newly put into English fustian, for the consolation of those that had rather laugh and be merry, then be merry and wise.
AuthorCotton, Charles, 1630-1687..
Extent Approx. 95 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 21 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images.
SeriesEarly English books online text creation partnership.
Additional notes

(EEBO-TCP ; phase 2, no. A80602)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 137124)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 2463:8)

About the source text

Bibliographic informationThe scoffer scoffed the second part. Being certain select dialogues of a merry wagg of antiquity. Newly put into English fustian, for the consolation of those that had rather laugh and be merry, then be merry and wise. Cotton, Charles, 1630-1687.. [4], 20, 16 p. printed for Edward Goldin, in Rainbow-Court, in Aldersgate-street,London :1684.. (In verse.) (Reproduction of original in the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library, University of California, Los Angeles, California.)
  • Virgil -- Parodies, imitations, etc. -- Early works to 1800.

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Publication information

  • Text Creation Partnership,
ImprintAnn Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2014-11 (EEBO-TCP Phase 2).
  • DLPS A80602
  • STC Wing C6398C
  • STC ESTC R231666
  • EEBO-CITATION 99899870
  • PROQUEST 99899870
  • VID 137124

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