Iter Oxoniense: OR, The going down of the ASSES to OXENFORD.
SInce Muddiman the gainful Trade laid down,
Of writing a whole Sheet for half a Crown,
A thousand Scriblers have retail'd the Trade,
And News is now the Towns great Staple made.
Now, Giles! the Caduceus shall be thine;
Thou hast a specious Title to the Nine.
The Crow or Goose from which thou pull'st thy Quill,
Have gi'n thee Seis [...]n of Parnassus Hill.
Could'st thou till May, in Prose and Verse go on,
Thy Purchase would at last be Helicon.
Thou might'st enlarge thy small Retinue then,
And for thy one poor lousie Boy, keep ten.
Thou at thy Bingo's might'st resume the Chair,
And be thy self a Speaker there:
Thou might'st thy Secretaries keep, and give
Orders, how much each one should write, to live.
Thy Bingo's house shall be thy Pen,
To keep thy Porcupines, thy Satyrs den.
From whence, could the poor Scribling Tribe but still
Continue for to Dart their Quill,
And tender Reputation (if but wounded) Kill,
Thou need'st not be dejected at this Rate,
Nor claw thy head about Affairs of State;
Nor at this dismal Rate lament,
'Cause Oxford's to receive the Parliament.
Thy Porcupines when e're they write,
When they let fly, they hit the White;
When Innocence and Loyaltie's the Mark,
At such bright Buts they can discharge i'th' dark.
At Rovers let them shoot, no matter why,
Whether the Sheet contain a Truth or Lye,
The News, if false, is more like Mercurie.
Thy Satyrs may make bolder Sallies hence,
And Ravish Votes and Speeches thence;
'Faith this will do't, and will return the Pence.
But if the Scholars catch thy Monsters there,
They'l treat 'em with their sharp Pig-market chear,
And send the Sturdy Vagrants back again,
With the safe Pass-port of the Birchen train.
Necessity's the Quiver whence they draw,
Which has no more of Conscience than of Law.
Their feather'd Shafts their points to Envy owe;
Faction's the twist that strings their Bow.
What, moody Bingo! come, the busie Bee
Now Spring comes on, abroad will flee,
And then, with what she gathers up and down,
Supply this greater Hive the Town.
Thy Stock with Drones will Swarm,
'Tis such as Coffee-houses warm,
Such as are useful, though they feed,
These cherish and maintain the Breed.
'Tis News and Coffee calls in these,
As Sound and Ringing does the Bees,
Alas! they sure our buzzing may forgive;
All that we aim at, is (like Men) to live.
We Car' no stings, nor bags of Honey;
No, Bingo, we are all for ready Money.
And if perhaps sometime we do let fall
One word o'th' times, O straight we are all gall;
Cotton, Hill, Claypoole, Walden, Mills, and Pike,
Who like unto St. Dunstans Church-men strike,
As I the greatest Motion, point the time,
'Tis by my Trunk such Ivy knows to climb.
There's Piggot, Madder, Bill, and Mason too,
With Blear-ey'd Blackhall, and a hopeful Crew
Of Hawkers, such as do compleat my Train,
And never swing my paper-Lure in vain.
These, Bingo, do attend their Monarchs call:
News is my Province, and I'm own'd by all.
These bring their Tributes when we please to meet,
Near th'Ruines of St. Pauls new shodden feet;
Which we allay, and coin first in our Mint;
We Current make't, by putting it in Print;
'Tis but a Penny-Cheat, if nothing's in't.
And why may'nt Paper go as well at last,
As Leather-Money did in Ages past?
At last, to make the Parliament compleat,
(For the whole Nation in that Body meet)
'Tis fit that we to Oxford should repair,
'Faith my Camelions choak for want of Air;
And tho' we halt, yet we still Members are.
Like King-Fishers, they fly along the stream,
But never brood, like them, when 'tis ferene;
They rather Propus-like in Tempests play,
And shew their Head more in the March than May.
But how my Tribe I shall to Oxford bring,
That Canaan, Bingo! that, ay that's the thing!
If you the Royal Caravan provide,
We all are then to our hearts wish supply'd.
For at the least, Retainers to the Court
We, shall be thought, and you'l get Money for't:
Thou shalt to th' Crew as frugal Purser go;
I have design'd it, and it must be so.
I have already furnisht out my House,
'Tis the old Hall of the fam'd Mother Lowse.
They lay a claim to't: as we creep along,
Thou'lt know we are at least one thousand strong.
Assur'd of Trade, provide thy self a Room;
My Ants will to their wonted hillock come;
And there our labours shall increase thy heap,
And both a Harvest from the Scholars reap.
For we, like Harlots, when too common grown,
Find Trading quickest where we're most unknown.
Coffee and News can never want a Trade,
Whilst both to Cheat the People can be made.
FINIS.