But Looks, nor Meanaces, nor crashing Blow, Cou'd make ftout Kill-Prick quit her lov'd Dildoe: Undaunted, fhe maintain'd a Cruel Fight,
For Conqueft fcratcht and tore with all her might.
So have I feen a Crump-back'd Crablouse stick
With ferven love to lick creating Prick;
The more he pulls, the more the loving Wretch
Do's ftrive to stay, and to each Hair do's catch,
Till Murd'ring Man, enrag'd, from Ballock tears
The Nock-born Brat,and ends his hopeful Years.
So had it fair'd with Kill-Prick, had not Fate
Sent Man of God to end the Dire Debate.
What Rage, what Fury (faid he) do's ye ftir,
To fhed the Blood of Saints in Cruel War ?
How will you make the Mother Church to Mourn,
And to Fanatitks be the Publick Scorn?
For fhame, Dear Souls, referve your Noble Blood
Tofpend with Man. Abafht the Warriers ftood
To fee the Holy Father in the Place;
But ftrait on the Matter putting a good Face,
Thus Kill-Prick fpake: To you, O Reverend Sir,
The Juftness of the Caufe I will transfer ;
ACaufe to great for Lay-men vile to try,
Fit for Plus Ultra's deep Divinity;
A caufe for which Bleft Saints above would Dię!
The Modeft Tall-Boy fo devout appears,
Though stealing Pricks, you'd think the faid her
(Pray's.
And though fh' had almoft won the Bloody Field,
With Suck Prick)Babe of Grace)to this do's yield.
The caufe being ftated, Holy Man do's pray
For a Bleffing on's Endeavours, then do's fay,
Whereas, Sage Matrons, you do all agree,
Your Cafe to yield to my Integrity,
Fitter for General Council than weak me ;
Dildo's a lawful Tool, deny't who can,
I'll prove 'tis made for a meet help for Man;
As unto Rector, Curate is affiftant.
So Dildo's to fall'n Prick, when Cunt has pift on't.
But here's th' Elest ordain'd for Propagation,
Who trufts in this, is bleft in Generation:
This has done more than Tunbridge, Bath or Epfom,
Though ne're fo barren this is fure to help 'm.
Then pulling out the Rector of the Females, Nine times he bath'd him in their piping hot Panting, quoth he, Now Peace be on you all, (Fails: When I am abfent, then on Dildoe call;
As thofe in Holy-Church to Image pray,
When Wonderworking Saint is out o' th' way.
Thus all well-pleas'd,to Church away they go,
To fing Te Deum for their dear Dildoe.
An Allufion to Harace,
The Tenth Satyr on the First Book.
Nempe incompofito Dixi pede,&c. Ma¿
Ell Sir, 'tis granted, I faid D-Rhimes
Were ftola, unequal, nay dull many
What foolish Patron is there found of his,
So blindly partial to deny me this?
But that his Plays, embroider'd up and down With Wit and Learning,juftly pleas'd the Town, In the fame Paper I as freely own.
Yet having this allow'd the heavy Mafs
That ftuffs up his loofe Volumes must not pass:
For by that Rule I might as well admit
Crown's tedious Scences for Poetry and Wit.
'Tis therefore not enough when your falfe Senfe
Hits the falfe Judgment of an Audience,
Of Clapping Fools affembled a vaft Crowd,
Till the throngd Playboufe crack with the dull Load,
Though ev'n that Talent merits, in fome fort,
That can divert the Rabble, and the Court;
Which blundring S- never cou'd attain,
And puzling O-labours at in vain :
But within due Proportions circumfcribe
What e're you write, that with a flowing Tide
The Stile may rife, yet in his rife forbear
With useless words t' opprefs the wearied Ear.
Here be your Language lofty,there more light,
Your Rhetorick with your Poetry unite:
For Elegance fake fometimes allay the force
Of Epithets, 'twill foften the Difcourfe.
A Jeft in fcorn points out and hit the thing
More home than the morofer Satyr's Sting.
Shakespear and Johnfon did herein excel,
And might in this be imitated well;
Whom refin'd E-Copies not at all,
But is himself a meer Original.
Nor that flow Drug in fwift Pinderick Strains,
F-who C imitates with pains,
And Rides a Jaded Mufe whipt with loofe Reins.
When Lee makes temp'rate Scipio fret and rave,
And Hanibal a whining Amorous Slave,
I laugh, and with the hot brain'd Fuftian Fool
In B Hands to be well lafht at School.
Of all our Modern Wits, none feems to me
One to have touch'd upon true Comedy,
But hafty Shadwel, and flow Wicherly.
Shadwel's unfinish'd works do yet impart
Great proofs of force of Nature, none of Art
With juft bold Strokes he dashes here and there,
Shewing great Maftery, with little Care;
And fcorns to varnish his great touches o're,
To make the Fools and Woman praise 'em more.
But Wichery earns hard what e're he gains,
He wants no Judgment, nor he fpares no Pains;
He frequently excels, and at the leaft
Makes fewer Faults than any of the best.
Waller, by Nature for the Bays defign'd,
With Force, and Fire, and Fancy unconfin'd,
In Panegyricks do's excel Mankind.
He beft can turn, enforce, and foften things,
To praife Great Conquerors, or to flatter Kings.
For pointed Satyrs I would Buckhurst chufe,
The belt good Man,with the worst natur'd Muse,
For Songs and Verfes, mannerly, obscene,
That then ftir Nature up by Spring unfeen,
And without forcing Blushes, warm the Queen.
Sidley has that prevailing, gentle Art,
That can with a refiftlets Charm impart
The loofeft Wishes to the chafteft Heart;
Raife fuch a Conflict, kindle fuch a Fire,
Betwixt declining Vertue and Defire,
Till the poor vanquifht Maid defolves away,
In Dreams all Night, in Sighs and Tears all Day.
Din vain try'd this nice way of Wit.
For he to be a tearing Blade thought fit;
But when he wou'd be fharp, he frill was blunt,
Tofrisk his frollick Fancy, he'd cry Cunt,
Wou'd give the Ladies adry Bawdy Bob,
And thus he got the Name of Peet-Squab.
But to be jult, 'twill to his praife be found,
His Excellencies more then Faults abound;
Nor dear I from his Sacred Temples tear
That Lawrel which he beft deferves to wear.
But do's not D-find even Johnfon dull?
Fletcher and Reaumont uncorrect, and full
Of Lead Lines, as he calls them? Shakespear's Stile
Stiff and affected; to his own the while
Allowing all the Juftnefs that his Pride
So arragantly had to thefe deny'd?
And may not I have leave impartially
To fearch and fenfure D- Works, and try
Ifthofe grofs Faults his choice Pen do's commit,
Proceed from want of Judgment, or of Wit?
Or if his lumpifh Fancy do's refufe
Spirit and Grace, to lofe his flattern Mufe?
Five Hundred Verfes every Morning writ,
Proves you no more a Poet, than a Wit:
Such fcribling Authors have been feen before;
Mustapha, the English Princefs, Forty more,
Were things perhaps compos'd in half an hour:
To write what may fecurely ftand the Teft
Of being well read over thrice at least,
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