Or a short Reply to ABSALON and ACHITOPHEL.

IN pious times when Poets were well bang'd
For sawcy Satyr and for Sham-Plots hang'd,
A Learned Bard, that long commanded had
The trembling Stage in Chief, at last run mad,
And Swore and tore and ranted at no rate.
Apollo and his Muses in debate
What to do with him, one cry'd, let him Blood,
That says, another will do little good;
His Brains infected sure, under his Nose
We'le burn some Feathers of Peru, who knows
But that may bring him to himself again?
Ay, for some time says Clyo; she was more
For Opiates, others for Hellebore.
Apollo having heard all they could say,
Rose up and thankt them said, he'de try a way
He hop'd would do, then call'd a Noble Friend
Well verst in Men, and beg'd of him to spend
Some time and pains upon this wretch, which he,
Agreeing to, went presently to work,
Open'd his head, saw where the Maggots lurk;
Took many of them out, put them in Sut,
Then Added Mercury and Nitre to't,
Mixt and infus'd them well, and after all,
Distil'd them in a Limbeck Comical,
And drew a Spirit very Soveraign,
For those are troubled with the fitts o'th Brain,
And gave our Poet some, all he could make
The peevish, Squeamish, self-wil'd Coxcomb take.
It did him good and cur'd him of those Fitts:
But 'twas too little to restore his Wits:
For since he has gin' ore to Plague the Stage
With the effects of his Poetick rage,
Like a mad Dog he runs about the Streets,
Snarling and Biting every one he meets.
The other day he met our Royal CHARLES,
And his two Mistresses, and at them Snarles.
Then falls upon the Ministers of State
Treats them all A-la mode de Billingsgate:
[Page] But most of all, the glory of our gown,
He must be bark't at, Drivil'd, pist upon.
He whose soft tongue had charmes enough t'asswage
The Tygers fierceness, could not scape the rage
Of this same whifling Cur; poor Cerberous,
That taught the Rogue to bark, was serv'd just thus.
This Vipers brood, contrary to all Laws,
The torn out Entrails of his Parent knaws.
He gives no quarter, spairs no friend, nor foe,
And where he once gets hold, never lets go
Until he breaks a tooth, which he hath done
So oft of late, that he hath few or none
Left in his mouth. Nay which is worst of all
On his Physician he does always fall,
And find him out where e're he is and bawl
Eternally, taking in Evil part
What he good man did by the rules of art,
And for his good, assisted by a Set
Of the most able Leeches he could get;
Apollo vext to see there was no more
Effect of Medicine, bid his friend give o're,
And sent some Chirurgions to him to anoint
The Carcase of the whelp in every Joynt
With Oyl of Crab-tree, than which nothing fetches
The itching Venome out of Scribling Wretches
Better or sooner, but I know not how
It came to pass, with him it would not do.
For since his being anointed, he is run
Yelping with Towser up and down the Town,
And crying out against an Absalon
And an Achitophel. The Currs had got
Between them in their Mouthes a new Sham-Plot,
The Twentieth of the Kings, some say indeed
It is the same that Mother Celier hid,
Deep in the Meal-tub, only new lick't o're
And brought to better shape by half a score
Of Irish Mongrels, newly fetcht from thence,
The best in England at an Evidence.
A little bribe will make them sware devoutly,
They're much more famous for their swearing stoutly,
Then for their fighting so, this kind of Cattel
Are better far at Roguery than Battel.
An Irish man's Antiwood-cock, cares
To venture nothing, but his head Ears.
This Copper coyn will never with us pass,
It looks so scurvily, nay it smells of Brass;
How could you think this would be currant here,
That is not so at home? 'Tis cry'd down there:
What then shall we do now; faith you had best
Try Scotland next, now it hath past the Test
Come hither my Dog Towser, come, for I
A new Experiment intend to try,
I'le have thee worm'd, hold out thy Venom'd Tongue,
What a huge Worm is here? 'Tis an inch Long,
And of the Jebusite smells very strong
If this won't do thou shalt be fairly hung.

LONDON, Printed for T. I. 1681.

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