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Orbilius Vapulans
A Riddle.
Ʋnfold this Riddle Corydon or Jynx,
Who's He that is both Oedipus and Sphynx?
The Solution.
It is the Doubty Paedagogue I ween
With Flounder's face, Hogs snout, & Grinders keen,
Who Coffee drank, and then disgorg'd the Scum
In Verse, prefer'd to many a Loyal bum;
Evans ap Shone's, ap Morgan, are his names
He flew from Penmen-maure to th'banks of Thames
HOld good Knock sergus! but have Drones their stings?
May Pedagogu's, and such inferior things,
Thus play the Tyrants, stamp upon the Stage,
Outstorme an Hector, and like Bravoes rage?
Rods into Scepters Bloom, Peasants, commence
Dictators now, Quintilian act's the Prince;
School's Flourish into Courts, and each bold wight,
Is a Fanatick or a Parasite.
Hark how he greets me, ho! at what a rate
He complements! I challenge Billings gate
From the crab Trull, unto the Oyster Quean
To forge a name more ugly and obscene,
Than are the best, the most refind of these;
Mephytis sink of all scurrilities!
The [...]sty Lyrick in feverer rimes
Ne're lash't the Drolls, and bablers of the Times;
Nor Caesars Favourite with greater rage
Kick't the Grammarians off the Roman Stage,
Then this proud Sciolist, absurd Pedant
(But that he doth their wit and learning want)
Gib's his Antagonist: Good Gaffer hold!
So the poor Cuckold did in Plautus scold.
Avaunt Jack Cleaveland! see you come not nigh,
By forty foot! E. is too hard for I:
You whose each Verse could discipline a Drab,
That bite like Scorpions, like Stillettos stab;
You that could with a Drop of Inke, no more
Make Adoniram run, and Marshall roare;
You that could murder with a single shot
The motly Synod, and the Rebell Scot;
Fell Monster born with teeth, strung all with wire,
A Woolf thy Nurse, a Dragon was thy Sire!
Here is the Poet Jack, ay! here is he
None of the fudling gang, whose phantasie
Floats with the liquour, doth augment and grow,
Fall, dwindle'as the Goblets ebb and flow.
Such Greek and Latine lines the fool doth draw
As Virgil never scan'd, nor Homer saw.
But tell me good Sir Knight, pray why is it
You thus engage your self sans fear or wit?
What Windmill, Umbra, May-pole, Zealous sir
Offends your Gizzard, that you thus bestir
The Weapens of your Warrfare? when by chance
'Tis but the Spectre that doth frisk and dance
In your own phancy; Anagrams declare
Yet him conceal whose name the letters bear.
Fy wretched Codrus! thus to fret and vex
For nothing! Brawles so well become your sexe?
Knave, Rascall, Villain, Helhound, Hector, Sor,
Groom, Hangman, Scullion, Pick-thank and what not?
Smooth Epethits in truth, so women use
For Recreation sake to disabuse
Themselves, so the meek and dissenting Saint
Doth Loyall Levy brand and represent:
Britannicus, Cretensis breath in you
The Youngling Elder, and Smectymnuus too▪
'Tis one thing Sir to punish and chastise
A stubborne boy whose immoralities
Call for severer censures, but withall
Another thing to Scuffle for the Ball.
You smite his lewd posteriours, he poor thing
After one stroke about your knee's doth cling,
Kisses the rod: while the bold enemy
Kicks at the hand, and spurn's the penalty.
Suppose young Phaethon crack his Father's Whip,
Scourges Pyroeis, mak's old Phlegon skip,
Wot you the angry steeds will softly go,
And not the waine and Giddy Guide o'rethrow?
If Beasts, if Worms, and Flies disdain, abhor
Affronts and Injuries, sure men much more.
I cannot bear it (Lord) I cannot do't,
Say every lash did slay a sin to boot,
A mortall sin; suppose this instant were
Good-Friday, and the man my confessor;
Fayth were I stript of flesh, were I refin'd
Into a shadow, were the spright and minde
The bigger half, had the Promethean fire
Rarify'd nature from its dreggs and mire:
A ring, a ring (Brave Boys) I neither fear,
His frown, nor Court his smile, the Wooden Bear,
Rod, ferula, slight poor and triviall Tools
Made for to fray and scare chitts, changlings, fools;
Be still a while, nor me ith' least annoy,
I am resolv'd to act the Stubborn boy.
And yet methinks what e'r the vixen sayes,
Tis some small comfort to be lash't with Bayes,
Smart Rods but sweet! a Satyrist both claws
And bites at once! Black Monday makes white boy's.
Instruction is like Physick, lesse or more
May be received at the Postern dore.
Me thinks I could even strip my self, expose
My naked loynes unto the stripes and blows
Of an Ingenious hand, could hear him crack
The threefold cord, Plow furrows on my back;
But to be bastinado'd by a base
And forbid Rascall, to expose my face
To slaves, to have my Groome (whose villanies
The skittish Colt did with his hoof chastise)
To cuff and kick me, to o'reheare a sot,
A Tyro, Dunce, a Fool, call Ideot;
This, this would eve'n enrage, provoke, incense
A man of Marble, trie the patience
Of Job, make Socrates himself to mutter
An Israelite repine, and Moses stutter.
Nor say Ingenious Souls can'er be led
To curse, to slander, and molest the dead;
Kick bones about the streets, rifle the Urnes
Of Priests and Princes, clip the Flame that burns
In the still grot, blow ashes here and there,
As Winds whiff meteors to and fro ith' aire:
If Grotius be an Heretick, a son
Of the old Whore, he was a Learned one;
If not, let nothing that is vile be said;
Speak well behinde his back, the Lyon's dead.
They'r Wolves and Tigers will not wink, and spare
The quiet Trunks, and silent heaps that are
In Tombes, whom Searcloths do defend and keep,
And on whose locks, Stones, Clay, and Marbles Weep:
And he that shall display the nakednesse
Of a dead father, not at all confesse
A blush, deride scoff at the modest man
That turn's his head, cal't superstition,
This wretch transcends the Devill and his Dam
May he be son and heir to cursed Cham!
And thou Religious soul how could'st thou choose,
But bleed to see the Miscreant abuse
Those sacred Crumms? and in a holy rage
(For passion thou hast none) ascend the Stage
Chide the Sacrilegist? who now defies
Thee and the Goblin, tells a thousand lies.
How couldst thou suffer an indignity
From such a Worm, a Mirmidon as he
And not have gi'n the Crow's him presently?
Come forth thou sonn of Mars, unsheath thy blade,
Send his black Soul into the Stygian shade;
Where grizly firends with sharp and flaming rods
Preach justice, and submission to the gods.
Know you that were spectators at that time,
None held their peace but did abet the crime:
Call it not Peccadillo▪ little, small;
'Twas grosse, 'twas divellish, it was nationall.
Say had the Combate been twixt thee and I,
The Latine Moth, and the poor English fly;
The Frog and Mouse that in the Fable were,
The Humble bee, and the incensed Bear;
Woe worth thy dayes, poor Taffee, splutternayles,
Her would have sent her packing into Wales
With a blinde Gipsie and a passe: for all▪
Her pettigree and monthly vailes not small.
But oh the Pamphlet! oh! the monstrous ragg
Blown to and fro, 'twould make one break his Cragg
To read the Libell, faith it seems to me
No other than a sucking prodigy.
Did ever London see, good Gossip speake
A Romish bantling with an English Beake?
Brekekekex, the Empusa appeares,
Runaway Jack and he that lost his ears,
Old Hugh, blinde Milton, Jeamy, Zepheniah
The Savoy Woolf, lew'd Ned great Obadiah
Ne'r Father'd such a mome, the Son and Heir
Of some light wanton Incubus I swear.
The two leg'd Puppy that the elders made
Kenel'd: for lusty swash forsooth had laide
His taile in Jeanys lap, the shagged Moore
That a faire Maddam by a Monkey bore;
The Scotch spred Eagle which (the Legends say)
A holy Sister hatch'd the other day,
Add Filly foal to boot, the hopefull Heire
Of Green the Quaker, and old Roan his Mare;
None of all these a sweeter Moppet was,
Trust me it is a dainty babe of grace.
Was ever man so grosse, so damn'd a fool!
An English Title and a Latine Scroll?
Right Sturbridg Ware, a Linsy Woolsy pack,
Party perpale, Tiffe dash'd with nobler Sack;
Greek, Latine, English, jumbl'd in one sheet,
Bombolobombaxe and Alastor meet.
A Learned Weaver (if I ha'nt mistook)
Fixt a Greek Title to an English Book;
The Whipping Presbyter though much to blame
Christen's a Scotch Barne with a Romish name;
But never any man play'd such a trick
As this (without a scoff) a cuff, a kick
Is thy desert; it had been well if you
Had wrote the Prologue in red letters too.
The Coffee Scoffer cuff't and kickt, a bold
And odious Title! Skittish jades of old
Kick harmlesse passengers: but then I fegs
They clap bolts, padlocks, trammells on their leggs.
O thou mischeivous Beast, plague worse than froggs
And lice, kick me no kicks! go kick your dogs
Your slaves, your boyes, get to your school there you
Are Tyrant Tray tor, Judg and hangman too.
Thinkst then proud Caitiff any man will be
So much a dolt? as to be spurn'd by thee?
By thee base worm! proud Pedant, Mushrome, Slave
To every shit- breech boy and pistay'l knave?
No no pimp, prickear, villan, dandeprat,
(An Object fitter for contempt then hate)
I scorne thy threats (by Kate and Ixions wheels)
Kick once more Sir: I'l lay you by the heels:
And leave you no more eares, (by Bucer's bones)
Then 'tis reported Captain M. d hath stones.
But had the Romans such good hands and hoofs,
Play'd they at foot-ball, and at fisticuffs?
Sure no! The sword, the bow, the warlike speare
Become the camp, the Amphitheatre:
Yet heels do not amiss, what e'r you say
First they offend, and then they run away.
But oh 'tis not enough (bold knave) for thee
To kick thy foe but he must slander'd be;
Dirt, Ordure, filth is thrown in every part;
As if so be you'd study'd the black Art;
Had vow'd, resolv'd to render me deforme,
And ugly as thy self, vile worthlesse worme!
I am a scoffer! thou a lyer art!
And though five thousand devills take thy part
I'l prove the charge; the place and company
No Gentleman doth more revere than I:
There the accomplish't and ingenious Knight
Gives Oracles; there do the sonns of light
And peace meet in a convocation; there
The subtle and profound Philosopher
Reads Lectures; there the Learned Doctors meet
Discourse the Patient to his winding sheet;
There the pale Chymist, waking with the Cock
Tells how he stript dame Nature to her smock;
There the dark Statist in a corner sits
Talks Matchivell, condemns the vulgar witts;
There the grave Lawyer stroak's his beard and talks
Not of Spring▪ Garden or of Grayes-Inn Walks,
But of old Records; Archimedes sonn
Numbers the sands, and spans the Horizon;
There the rich Merchants one another please
With news of losse and gain, of winds and seas;
Dons, Mounsieurs, Segneours, in their language speak,
The sullen Jew salutes the merry Greek;
And there the pevish Pedagogue intrude's
Himself, breed's quarrells, distances and fewds.
The Company I love, nor do I lesse
Applaud the Liquour: none but will confesse
The worth of Coffee: Pagans, Turks and Jews
This soveraign drink as food and Physick use.
The Boon Companion whom the wine deprives
Of Reason, drinks a Dish and straight retrives
His wonted sence; the Studious Scholler keeps
Hereby his Eylids from incroaching sleeps;
This tunes the tongue, strikes on that sacred Lute,
While other liquids render persons mute.
Who's now the Coffee Scoffer? who derides
This Panacaea? is't not hee that prides
Himself in Bugbear termes, in crabbed names,
Riddles, Aenigmas, Problems, Anagrams?
Right John Pontaeus, so the knave delights
To call his Papers by hard Epethites.
Sphynx, Sybill, and Medea, none of these
With all their Mistick knotts, and subtilties;
Nor all the cunning women you can finde
Can play the Mid-wife to the Authors minde:
Riddle the Riddle, it is worth my paines
For to transcribe it, O they'r lofty straines!
A Riddle.
What man and matter tell me friends with speed
Doth scribble lies and filthy flies doth feed?
The Solution.
Woolen breeds Moths (a wretch whom I did name
That hath no witt, no worth, no grace, no shame)
And in such hast, a galloper in'deed!
Must you be answer'd and with so much speed?
Are flies, and Moths, such little things as they
Matters of such importance, no delay?
Is scribling Treason? is to tell a fibb
So great a crime? for so the Pygotrib
Insinuats; to feed such dorrs as the
Wormes, Creepers, Trencher Flies such villany?
Grant that I am a Moth, 'twould be a shame
For you to cope with me, but little fame
Results from such a fight, each fool I faith
Can brush a Garment, whisk a Moth to death.
O thou mischievous wretch, thou wicked one!
Maligner of a reputation
Too large for thee to grasp! my nature, name
Bold Ignoramus crosse thy Anagram:
Woolen breed's Moths, I pitty thee poor fool!
My name and calling neither Moth nor Wooll,
Me thinks you might have found an Elogy
More pertinent, Waspe, Lyzard, Golde flie;
Why not the prodigall, the Widows Groat
Young Annanias, somthing made of nought;
Loe these are Scripture names and would have done
The feat, Moth fitts not my Vocation.
But wit's a parlous ape! and Poets may
Have Licenses sometimes to go a stray:
A Pegasus may trip, the Delphian Quire
May sing a wrong tune to the Sacred lyre:
Lies are but fables, fables the effect
Of a good phancy: Pish 'twas a neglect!
Although I do excuse the little faults
And frieks of Schollers, fancy great assaults
By lesser Brawls, yet I abominate
A Rabsheka: a Gods name let'em prate,
Wrangle till domes day, to eternity
Barr they base Names, and filthy Ribaldry.
Say hee's a fiend, a Devill that shall go
Not only to debase, but damne his foe;
First in a Joke insinuate his name
Than say he hath no wit, no grace, no shame.
Ambitious Mortall that shall make himself
Searcher of hearts! base, vile blasphemous elf!
Are you and Heaven such good friends I wiss?
Be Frogs fit Cronies for great Hercules?
What Pidgeon hath been billing in your ear?
Who told thee so? thou son of Lucifer!
To say I have no wit is as I live
An injury that I could ne'r forgive:
Did I not reflect on the Author, He
Is but a wittall that doth censure me.
To say I have no grace, if not a flam
A bold Assertion, Grace is like a dram
Of Mustard seed, too small, minute I ween
To be by such an Owl and Buzard seen.
Were you ingenious, you would be loth
To gire a person that's devoid of both:
A gracelesse fool is the most sad, forlorne
Person, object of pitty not of scorne.
Ingeniously I can't but thank you Sir
For this your charitable character:
And would retort the like but that insooth
I should thereby constrain you to speak Truth.
Know herein lies my wit, thou prating pie!
That I can heare thy scoffs so patiently;
Herein my modesty is manifest
I blush to read thy lines, although the best;
And for mygrace, lo hence it doth appear,
All my revenge shall be an honest prayer;
O thou that lookest from the Starry place
Send Him more wit (good Lord) and I more grace!
And yet he doth but jest, but gratifies
A pleasant humour, these are Moths & flies
Puns, quibles quillets, trifles, tricks & toys
The sport of wise men, and the pride of boys:
But now he rails down right, in earnest flings
Brands about streets, cuts, Carbanados, stings;
Was ever Whelp so fierce? his looks would put
A woman to the squeak, disperse and rout
A file of Red-coats; how his tangl'd mane
Stares on his crest! his eyes transmit a flame
Fatall as Basilisks, his bloudy beak
Warrs, Massacres, and desolation speak;
Forth with he gripes his fist, bites, gnaws the rod
Kicks boys like footballs, now he calls on God
To cleare his innocence, in the next breath
Invocates hell, and all the fiends beneath.
Fury, Frenetick, Cycophant, the source
Of vice, Mad-cap, old, Plutos Hobby-horse,
Brazen-face, meal-mouth, pale Megaera's rod,
Young Thracian, the scourge and Plague of God;
Base Cut-throat, Rake-hell, Wild-asse, Gally slave,
Ripe for the Hang man, Puppy, Cocks-comb, Knave,
Wolf, Monkey, Lyon, Leopard, Beast of Prey,
Kite, Flie, Dor, Droane, Mouse, Creeper such as they;
Jack-puding, Glutton Hang by, Conjuror
Dreamer, Groom, Dung-hil, Serpent, Barking curr;
These are the protty names ('sides fool and rogue)
This is the manners of the Paedagogue!
Say not that he's ho Poet, that the man
Hath a bad fancy 't cannot bee! who can
Invent so many names? but Welsh-men be
Well read we say in Genealogy▪
What you a Master? I a wretched one!
A Hang man, (ev'ry begger is a Don
In Spain, I do confesse,) you govern, guide
Untoward boys, who cannot rule your pride!
But bold Pedant, if the assertions true
Your Belly is the Master and not you:
And all the Art you have, is how to crambe
That endless gut, and all devouring wombe.
Say not you honour Grotius, least hereby
You make your self to be the prodigy.
A double Tongue is like a Cloven Foot
Both monstrous are, alasse 'tis to no boot
For thee to talk of Tully, not a line
Of his thou understand'st base Cataline!
Corderius, Textor, Cate, such as these
Are books for thee; if Tully's Offices
Be not too hard, you might do well to read
Them also, for good maners you much need.
Nor gratify your self with splended names
Presumptuous Epethites: his worth and fame's
But small, who is constraind! unhappy elf
To live unknown, or to applaud himself.
Phancy thy self no Swan, or Turtle, neither:
Borrow your honour from a plume, a feather
Batt's, Ravens, Screetch-oules, night▪ birds, Pellicans,
A gagling Goose among a flock of Swans,
Even such Art thou proud fool, I do presume
You will when dying sing another tune.
The melancholy man that did conceit
Himself an asse, thought that his hands were feet,
Was tentime's more excusable than thee
For that he had at least humility.
If I break Priscians pate, a rods in piss
For poor Peel▪ garlick, and forsooth it is
His ignorance: He plucks him limb from limbe
What's folly in his boy, is wit in him.
Was ever Meore, Mahometan, or Jew,
So barbarous, to cut a man in two?
Saw him assunder, Priscian thou shalt be
Styld Martyr hence, another Jeremy,
Pox on your Malmsy Nose, a beastly sight
You cannot see for't it, obstruct's your light:
I did not say you had the Crincums, no
Or that you snuffl'd or did stradling go;
Who would be plagued with his conscience thus?
You say your self your Citheriacus:
'Twere very sad indeed if every one
That ronch't was frenchefy'd, no pox but one?
Yet's not impossible, the de'il wait's for
The backsome Girl and doting Bachelor,
Angles for such as these, a David may
Have a bad fall, a pretious Lambkin stray,
An Ephrim wax stiff, Tabitha faile,
Lidy, and Prisse may have an itching Taile,
Than do not blame me 'twas my love to thee
My tendernesse, a holy jealousy.
You King it in the Scufflle, climb a Throne,
And to your Scepter, Diadem, and Throne
You ha since annext a pallace and a Queen,
An ample Study and your book I ween;
I wish the issue and posterity
That spring and do derive from them and thee
Mae be more Beautifull, Fair, Virtuous too
Than any of thy brats were hithertoo.
May they be sons of strength, of joy and mirth
May no more kick and struggle in the birth!
I'l say but this: I never saw a heap
Of viler things▪ odd numbers; only speak
Envy, and hatred, fury, passion, rage,
But as for wit and phancy, scarce a Page
A line, of all the scroll: Alasse poor Poet,
So meere a droll a dunce and yet not know it.
One while he plays the thief, anon the lyer
Now he condemns the Doctor, then the Squire;
Sometimes he claws the Knight, with odious Names
Pelts me; anon he slights and spurns Sir James:
In the same breath he railes and doth cologue
Calls pretty youth, and rope deservign rogue:
I cant but grieve, methinks I could condole
With the poore boys that suffer the controle
Of such a furioso, wretched Maevi!
His pens no sharper then his hand is heavy.
If he doth lord and dominere ore one
That scorns his rule, and domination,
How much a Tyrant is he over yee
Whom he can punish by authority?
Though I ne'r playd the Orator, nor may
I ever hope (could I) to beg a play
For you poore Lads, I am resolved to
Lash the curst pedant as he scourges you:
And make him know for all his cracks, and lies,
That Moths have stings as well as Gnats and Flies.